


Repair

by BananasAreForParties



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Angst, Artoo is Luke's child, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, UST, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-06 14:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13413465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananasAreForParties/pseuds/BananasAreForParties
Summary: Mara Jade came to Aran to trade. She acquires nutcakes, Imperials, and one Luke Skywalker, condition: damaged. Hurt/Comfort fic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frangipani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frangipani/gifts).



> First, I owe a debt of gratitude to the beta work of frangipani. I wrote about the first 1/3rd of this and then hit a point I where I felt like I was floundering and the characterization was off. She totally helped me find my head and has been an amazing sounding board and supporter. Listened to my rant about TLJ. Then, she even agreed to beta the whole thing when I [finally] finished. 
> 
> The concept of this fic was inspired by a prompt I know I saw on tumblr almost two years ago but cannot for the life of me find. It was about Luke breaking his mechanical hand and Mara helping him. If anyone knows who posted the prompt, I will edit this and credit here :p
> 
> PLOT TWIST: turns out, it was frangipani's prompt all along! Fic now dedicated to her :p
> 
> ALL THE PROPS

It's a fair trade. Fair enough. Ever since Mara introduced fire wire and wool to the Arachnoid sisterhood, the Grand Mother of this remote tribe has been happy to trade a whole variety of goods, including many pretty stones that are worthless as decoration to a species without red-cone color receptors in their eyes. It's a little exploitative and Mara wouldn't like being party to it except the gems have enabled the Smuggler's Alliance to sweeten the pot when they had to negotiate with a pharmaceutical firm unwilling to supply the Chinulalla sector suffering from Melloncholic fever. She's no stranger to shady deals to save lives. At least this tribe has prospered exponentially since Mara's last trade visit. 

 

The sisters who greeted Mara when she and her crew touched down have been vibrating with excitement ever since. Their 'dance' is easily interpreted as enthusiasm. The ancient translator unit shook on its retrofit repulsor lift as it attempted to reproduce the chorus of, "We have what you desire, yes; you will trade us more of the wire" in Basic. 

 

Mara was then whisked away to their expansive, deep forest network of woven houses blended into the undergrowth where the Grand Mother presides. She received their leader's warm welcome and now finds herself seated by the hearth, the fire crackling and merry. Two of the tribe's five males are visible at the back of the room, playing with a ball between them. Males are a quarter the size of an average female, with wings and, as Mara has been made to understand, jealously guarded. It's a show of trust that Mara is allowed in the same room as them. 

 

"None starved through last winter's sleep. It is a first for our colony," the Grand Mother explains, ignoring the translation unit. The Grand Mother is six times as big as a male, and rotund besides. She's close to laying another round of larvae soon. The Honored Children (all sisters) of the Grand Mother are all about, under the dome of the elaborately woven house. They click their mandibles like a round of polite clapping. 

 

"I am gratified to hear of your bounty of children," Mara replies. 

 

"I thank you! And it pleases Us to learn you have added employee-children to your tribe." 

 

It has been a struggle to convey the physical differences between a humanoid species and aracnoid, let alone the cultural gulf the old translation unit does little to bridge. Mara has surmounted the trouble by explaining humans only have one to six children in a lifetime and so would 'build' their tribes from non-relations as an explanation for her coworkers helping her. The Grand Mother, along with all her drone children were astounded and confused, but apparently came to think that it must be a great feat to acquire 'employees' from their existing family units and to keep them happy with pretty stones. 

 

(Mara cringes to think they may be on to something with that notion). 

 

The point is, they think of Mara as a Grand Mother in her own right and the more employees she has, the more 'daughters', the more prosperous Mara is perceived to be. It isn’t easy for them to imagine the expansive network of the Smugglers Alliance, nor the fact that different women accompany Mara every trip because they work on rotation. 

 

The Grand Mother adds, "It is a pity you have not captured a male for siring more." 

 

There's a sudden rustle of chitters and hushing sounds from all the sisters. 

 

"I have a nest and I am content, Grand Mother." On the list of conversations that she does not want to have, discussing her personal life with a large, intelligent insectoid ranks high. "With the stones we were able to purchase medicine for one of our associate tribes." 

 

There's more happy chitters from the gallery. 

 

"Wondrous prosperity. We will pray thanks to Wo-ak, for she has seen fit to bestow blessings on all our allies. No doubt, your gracious wisdom has brought you children of employment." 

 

Mara says, "Yes, it has," because as a term for employees, it's close enough. "Grand Mother. I bring you more of the fire wire you requested and wool. We're also willing to trade medicine to you, to heal your children. By the laws of where we come from, we cannot ask for mineral resources in exchange for medicine, but I am interested in information about our rival tribes." 

 

Mara then launches into her proposal. She asks the Arachnoids to watch and observe ships in the skies. Take no risks and do not interfere, but if they see flying ships (she shows holos of typical Imperial vessels) they are to take note of the dates and times and compile reports for her return. They’ve had intelligence reports and overheard bar-room bragging of Imperials spreading to remote sectors in the outer rim. Resource and oxygen rich planets like Aran, this world, is a prime target and a good place to begin recon. 

 

For a moment, Mara thinks she has misjudged and upset them, for the Grand Mother is quiet and the chittering has changed into a buzzing sound the translation unit has chosen to interpret as, “Time, time, time?” 

 

The Grand Mother pronounces, "Wo-ak and C'c'cutthel are great! We are willing to trade now!" 

 

They are not upset. They are stupendously happy. Mara glances back at one of the new hires, Ellom, who is by the door with a bail of fire wire. She shrugs, as befuddled as Mara. In turn, Mara signals for her to return to the ship and alert everyone that there has been a new development. It's across the clearing and Ellom takes off in a casual jog that's deceptively fast. Ellom's a young Torugta and has long legs. 

 

The Grand Mother takes little notice of the departure and tells Mara, "My daughters were searching for more stones when they found what fallen ships you seek but three days ago. It was a great and terrible battle, with flying ships falling from our sky into our forest during a terrible, long storm. We can show you the metal ships. We thought to save a male and metal slave for you." 

 

This is why Mara hates making friends; they'll give you shavit presents. The over-enthusiastic Arachnoids have taken some hapless Imperial pilot and droid prisoner. Brilliant. It's a wonder the village hasn't been set on fire. 

 

The sisters stream out to fetch their hapless victim as Mara begins contingency planning. This is going to be a mess. They can't leave the Imperial here to escape and report back, but they certainly weren't anticipating taking prisoners. Karrde sent her out in an armed, light freighter which wouldn't be a match on its own for tie-fighters. It has several smuggling holds but they're not meant for live captives. The closest of their smuggling cartel cohorts are days away and, with evidence of Imperials in the sector, it's best to keep coms running on silent if they can help it which rules out calling in reinforcements as a viable option. 

 

"That was a very dangerous thing to do," Mara warns. 

 

"We understand," the Grand Mother says, even though Mara doubts it. "There is always great risk when tribes trade with peoples of the sky. Grand-Grand Mother taught that trade must be fair. We did not know the full value of the wire and wool. We thought, 'these supplies are good'. We did not know the full bounty that would result. Now we know. We can make a fair trade this time." 

 

"Believe me, it was a fair trade Grand Mother. I never part with anything I don't have to and I am honored you choose to offer this man at a fair price. But I am under Galactic Rule. By our law, it is a great dishonor to buy a male. I would be exiled. So, you understand the trouble I would face if I did purchase him." 

 

Mara is very careful not to say she does not want him. 

 

The Grand Mother's legs tap, tap, tap, as though she is deep in thought, solving the puzzle Mara has posed. Mara finds it's best to propose issues in such a way that allows clients to offer Mara the solution _she_ wants. "But it is not dishonor to buy the metal slave? We will sell you the metal slave and you will take the male, too." 

 

It's traditional to haggle, but there's nothing here to gain by quibbling and Mara has no taste for purchasing sentients even if they are Imperial war criminals. All is rendered moot when the sister-drones cart in a too-familiar blue pedal bin strapped helplessly to a board, screeching profanities in binary. 

 

Mara stands. 

 

"Bring him to me." 

 

Artoo's expletive rant stops at once and its onyx eye focuses and refocuses on Mara. As the tide of insects churns, it brings the droid to Mara to examine. Artoo warbles, perhaps to insult her or lecture in a high, worried pitch. Upon inspection, the droid is superficially dented in the front. The real damage is to its lower-half caused by water. It was recent enough that the droid has not been able to fully dry. Their captured status is a likely a recent development. 

 

It also means Imperials may be nearby. Or more NR fighters. 

 

"Are you mobile, droid?" she asks. Artoo twitters in what can only be a yes. "Good. Let me do the talking, will you?" 

 

There's a derisive beep, but that is cut short, changing into a long whine as the rest of the sisters stream back inside. Mara extends her senses. It has always been easy to make a connection with Skywalker. If he is here she will find him. When he’s alerted to her presence, Mara can tip him off through the Force to let her do the talking. She frowns, extending her focus. Even if he's shielding, she's familiar enough with his signature that she should at least have some sense of him and yes, there he is. It's Skywalker, no doubt, but strangely distant. Dim, as though he's— 

 

The sisters carry in a pale, naked corpse over their heads. 

 

Dread consumes. Consummate training makes her spine steel, her steps measured, giving away none of her distress as she kneels at his side, checking for a pulse. 

 

As if from far away, the translation droid intones the Grand Mother's chips: "Providence led you to bring us the medicine. We have kept this one alive, but we don't know how to heal skeletons inside." 

 

They’ve laid Luke out for her like a fresh kill. Old instincts scream for swift retribution, aimed at anything so callous as to leaving him this way. 

 

"He looks terrible," Mara hears herself say. 

 

Luke does. His flesh is pasty, blotched with bruises and blood loss. His lips are blue, even though the oxygen levels on this planet are unusually high. All his clothes are gone. No doubt they were filthy and, her basic medical training adds, an infection risk. The Arachnoids don't fully comprehend the significance of clothes given they breathe through their shells, but at least they've washed him. The gash running across his right shin, exposing the bone looks clean. There's no immanent sign of head injury save his unconsciousness and the fever of his skin, but a few fingers of his left hand are broken. No question about his pinky, probably the next two as well. The other, the prosthetic, is a mangled wreck of metal, wires, and blood. Whatever happened, he must have allowed it to take the brunt of the punishment. 

 

"My daughters witnessed the wreck. They found him injured and, knowing you would be by, brought him here." 

 

"Where are his things? His clothes, anything that was on him, I want it brought to me." Peripherally, the swarm moves, ostensibly to comply. With great care, Mara lifts his head, carding her fingers through his hair to check for injury or trauma. There might be a bump on the back. Her hands are shaking and it's hard to tell. 

 

Mara hears Ellom's heavy footsteps outside. It's about time. "Ellom, get in here and cut the droid free." 

 

To Ellom's credit that she barely pauses at the insane scene before whipping out a wicked-looking knife, running over, and sawing through the droid's bindings, quickly and efficiently. It doesn't feel fast enough, even as T’nah follows close, getting the droid down on the ground. They intuit her plan: they have the board down next to Luke with military precision. No one in their little trio is a medic, but everyone in the crew is trained for basic first-response. Mara cradles his head in place and holds his mangled arm while Ellom grips under his shoulders and T’nah gets his legs. 

 

T’nah flicks a lekku. “Do you want—” 

 

“Go,” Mara orders. Just as fast, they’ve whisked him away. 

 

Artoo rolls after them and Mara shouts, "Follow them to sickbay and do not get in their way." 

 

She wants to sprint alongside, but restraint is her ally. The Arachnoids cannot know who they found, cannot catch a whiff of whether or not he is important. If the Imperials deign it worth their while to interrogate primitives for information (and determine where they've acquired their off-planet resources) it is best if Skywalker's name is left out of it. Then there's the possibility of it interfering with negotiations with the Grand Mother. 

 

"We wish for 6 extra bails for the metal slave." 

 

Mara does not retake her seat and balls her fists. "I will bring you one extra bail on the next run." 

 

The Grand Mother and daughters hiss their disapproval. 

 

"They're both damaged and will need repairs. The man may be useful for labor, but he isn't pretty and only has the one hand. I'll have to hope he is not stupid." 

 

"The metal slave works." 

 

"It's thirty years out of date and will need repairs, too. You found them lying about. It cost you nothing to find them so whatever I give you will be pure profit. I will bring one and a half bails." 

 

The colony's sisters have returned with scraps of Luke's clothes. Mara is relieved to see his belt and lightsaber are among the refuse and to see T’nah pop back in and nods once. It's confirmation enough that everything on their end is going well. Mara swallows, hard. Her mouth is so dry. 

 

"The metal slave alone must be worth three bails." 

 

Mara hasn’t felt like throwing a sentient down and outright strangling them in a long time. "New and fully operational, maybe. I will give you three if you provide a map to the crash site and your daughters pack us six dozen nut cakes." 

 

These are simple enough requests and all the nest hums with agreement. 

 

"We assent to this deal." 

 

Mara has dug crescent-shaped welts into her palms. The trade is closed with aching slowness. She sits with them to share food. Her tacit nature means it's not unusual for her to keep quiet, though now she is utterly silent. Within her own mind, she willingly pours everything she can spare into the weak connection with Skywalker's unconscious mind. She's no healer, but she will do what she must to protect him. 

 

When she has eaten all she can stomach, she begs to be excused. "Under the unique circumstances, I must check with my crew." 

 

"Certainly, certainly." 

 

"And I wish to give your daughters time to draw up the map." 

 

"Are you sure you do not wish my daughters to take you to the site directly?" 

 

Mara is hesitant to mention the danger posed both to her crew and the colony by the Imperials. It will be better to address that concern with the Arachnoids after finding out what happened from Skywalker. "We do not have time to spare this trip. Recon can take days and we are already a day off schedule." 

 

The Grand Mother nods agreement and Mara paces herself all the way back to the cargo boat as a nervous T’nah follows close. 

 

Mina, their muscle on this trip, is unloading the cargo bay with speed. Without breaking her deadlift, she says, "Your hot company isn't dead yet." 

 

Mara chooses not to acknowledge the implication Skywalker is _her _company, since Mara's reasonably certain all the crew knows who they've picked up. "Imperials have been sighted but don’t know we’re here yet. T’nah, help her. We need to go."__

__

__Mara ducks inside, hearing Mina confer with T’nah, asking, "Imperials too?"_ _

__

__Mara runs as soon as she's past the airlock._ _

__

__The medbay on this bucket of bolts isn't more than a corner off the main hall that can have a partition pulled._ _

__

__Skywalker is cleaned up, as best as one can be by sonicing a man who is dead weight in a refresher. His flesh is rosier, less corpse-like, which could be helped by the red towel Ellom has thrown over his modesty but is likely the result of the IV lines. Ellom is finished wrapping his leg. Bacta patches make it bulky, but it's a relief to see._ _

__

__"Leg's done. That line has synth blood and the other is fluids and some painkiller," Ellom confirms. "Not sure how to set his fingers or what to do about that thing." She means the mangled prosthetic. "But he is stable."_ _

__

__"Did he regain consciousness at all?"_ _

__

__"No."_ _

__

__"Alright. Check the comms and the nav systems for trouble, then help Mina. I can handle the rest. Whoever shot him out of the sky may come looking for him."_ _

__

__"Are we compromised?"_ _

__

__"There's no sign we are, but the sooner we're gone, the less chance for trouble."_ _

__

__"I mean with trouble wrestling him from the Grand Mother."_ _

__

__"Him, the droid, and six dozen nut cakes in exchange for three extra bails." Mara snorts. It'd be funny if it weren't wholly distasteful. "His sister can pay us back. Now go load."_ _

__

__"Aye-aye." Ellom gives a wry salute and scurries off. To find a corner to laugh about it, no doubt._ _

__

__"You, trash can."_ _

__

__The droid beeps in derision._ _

__

__"Tap the Holonet for good instructions to remove this prosthetic."_ _

__

__Whistle of denial._ _

__

__"Don't try and pull a fast one on me. I'm sure the first thing you did was converse with the navicomputer, you little snoop, so there's no use pretending you need more master codes for access. Unless you're sprouting hands any time soon you're depending on me to heal you master. Do it."_ _

__

__It pulls the instructions, grumbling to itself all the while._ _

__

__Mara does an exceptional job of splinting Luke's fingers, if she does say so herself. Unconscious, he's oblivious to the grinding of fractures as she gives his pinky a clean break and puts it back into shape. She places the butterfly bacta patches over the smaller cuts so he won't have more scars. Once that's done, she lashes his arm in a sling, wrapping it to his side and across his bare chest. (She'll have to find him a button-down shirt or robe). Last to go are the IV drips. The bags are empty and she carefully detaches the cords and bandages the punctures. His color is better with the infusion of blood, but with his toes poking out over the end of the narrow cot and his nipples dark and peaked, he looks cold. Mara leaves momentarily to round up a soft sheet and a heavy blanket. Tucks him in. The blankets makes _shoofing_ noises that are too-loud amid the quiet hum of the medical equipment. His hair is a mess. She rakes her fingers through it back into his usual, tidy arrangement. _ _

__

__Taking a few deep breaths, she attempts to reach out through the Force. It takes her two attempts to— as best she can describe it—catch his drift. When she does, she catches pain from the chill wracking his bones and from hunger. She doubts he understands who is with him, but she does feel him reach back. The touch is weak with languor and she tries to bid him rest. Maybe it works, since the connection fizzles._ _

__

__Droids don't have a Force signature so it takes Mara some time to notice Artoo has its unblinking eye on her. When she does, it drops the tools it had managed to affix to its magnagrip and Mara takes her hand off his forehead._ _

__

__"I was not fussing," she denies, aware she's leaning over Luke's head and shoulders protectively. "He's very hurt."_ _

__

__It gives several worried beeps._ _

__

__The prosthesis removal is going to be her biggest challenge and it will take time. She rigs a datapad up to the overhead and when Artoo plugs into a drive-socket, the instructions scroll. She begins with the batteries which, compared to the rest of the process, are easy to remove. One has a cracked core which makes it a biohazard, but Mara deftly pops it out into a spare tin which they'll space once they've left atmo._ _

__

__Mara doesn't think Luke was electrocuted by it if it shorted, but given his state, it's not out of the realm of possibility._ _

__

__Nothing else is easy. It, the hand, had been attached without consideration for it ever being removed. Torching the metal case to melt the seams down to the wires but not burn said wire case (while not using a proper torch, spit-balling it with the one she uses around the ship) makes her grind her teeth. She goes slow, letting it cool every so often as not to burn his living flesh. There may have been pain-feedback from the broken nerve simulator because she senses something akin to a soft sigh through the Force as soon as she manages to disconnect the wiring. She shouldn't have waited to do this last._ _

__

__Guilt and frustration twinge in equal measure. She hasn't the medical discernment, hasn't the Force proficiency in healing let alone in general to be of better use._ _

__

__"Sorry," Mara apologizes, stroking his shoulder. "It should be better now."_ _

__

__The artificial hand is a loss. She tosses the ruin into box with the biohazard battery and re-checks that the connective plating for any further irritation of his living flesh. Scans indicate there was no damage to the bone, but they don't have the equipment to check the delicate nerve connections and there's always the possibility she's missed something. Carefully, she lays the stub of his half-arm close to his body and tucks the blanket under, securing it in place. She smooths the whole blanket, picking bits of lint from his chest._ _

__

__Artoo makes worried, inquisitive beeps._ _

__

__"He's stable. And the painkiller should be in full effect by the time he wakes. It'll be enough, at least until we reach a real medical facility." Which she will have to choose. There's a decent-enough outpost a day away but it's expensive. Expensive on account of being remote, not because it is state-of the art. If he were in worse shape, she'd go straight there, but if he remains stable, it may be worth the four-day trip to the state-of-the-art medical facilities on Republic-held Phorsa Gedd. If he was on a NR mission, they can afford to pay the bill. If they weren’t and Skywalker ends up footing the bill, his sister or the Republic can easily cover him._ _

__

__Mara double checks the medical readout and everything, including his oxygen levels and resting brainwaves, appears to be at or returning to normal. His lips are their usual pink (if chapped) hue._ _

__

__"You're not dying today, Skywalker. The only person who gets to kill you is me."_ _

__

__The overhead datapad flashes, drawing Mara's attention._ _

__

__"You must not," it says. "He will let you."_ _

__

__Mara yanks the datapad straight out and shouts, "Don't say that shavit to me, Pedal Bin."_ _

__

__Artoo makes cross noises at her which is all that prevents her from kicking it or getting into a pointless screaming match with a panicked droid. Her knuckles are white and the tips of her fingers red against the screen as she forces herself to calmly turn the device off. She takes a deep breath and accepts she is afraid, angry. Ashamed. But now is not the time or place for her emotions to run wild._ _

__

__"We have to leave this rock as fast as we can so I have to help with the cargo. You are going to monitor him and call me back the instant there's a change. Do not let him get into any more trouble."_ _

__

__The affirmation is petulant, but the droid can be relied upon to do what's best for his master._ _

__

__"And I know all about your propensity for getting chatty with new navigation systems. You and that X-wing computer might be best friends, but this cargo boat is Karrde's and I know for a fact Ghent has booby-trapped the encrypt-system’s booby traps. Snoop around. I dare you." There's little to no chance Skywalker's gossipy little bin _won't_ ignore her and barrel on into trouble, but no one can say she didn't give it fair warning. "I will be very upset if you get yourself fried while he's out of commission and I'm on deck. Understood?" _ _

__

__Begrudgingly, it agrees. Good enough._ _

__

__Two hours later, Mara is pleased the crew has made good time loading and unloading cargo without appearing to rush. She's toying with optimism until her comm goes off in a flutter of binary. Somewhere in the midst of threatening Artoo, she should have mentioned it was safe for the droid to access the interal translation and intercom system. Cursing under her breath, she runs all the way back to the makeshift medical alcove._ _

__

__Sling gone and one foot on the ground, Luke has wriggled free of his bonds. He has wild eyes, blown wide on painkillers and, if she didn't know better, fright. Though their eyes meet, Mara's not sure he's seeing her. His chest is heaving and has a sheen of sweat._ _

__

__In the awkward stillness where neither of them move, the thicker blanket slides. And slides, thumping to the ground though the blessed thin sheet remains, covering the particulars if not the shape of his lap._ _

__

__Then _that_ begins to follow gravity, too. _ _

__

__They both snap out of their stupor. He tries to catch the sheet with a hand that isn't there. Mara catches the edge, lifting it up and pressing it against his chest both for modesty and to encourage him to sit back as he has one foot on the floor like he expects to run. This does not mean she is blind to the swath of skin revealed from shoulder, hip, to his toes. She denies herself the pleasure of lingering too long on the side-view of his shapely bottom._ _

__

__(He has *dimples*)._ _

__

__She’s relieved he’s awake. Stupidly relieved. With a disarming smile, she says, "Easy there, big hero."_ _

__

__Her knuckles press against his bare chest as she pushes harder and Luke takes the hint, sitting back, but poised to move. His bandaged hand isn't in any shape to take over for her, but she settles the cloth down as he clasps it to his stomach with his stump, the metal plating a stark contrast to the pale sheet and skin._ _

__

__With unfeigned exasperation, she asks him, "What exactly did you think you'd achieve, messing up that nice arm brace and running bareassed around my ship?"_ _

__

__His expression of surprise and confusion never leaves his face, though he looks back at the stump of his arm._ _

__

__He may yet be in shock. Or stupor from the pain and drugs Ellom administered. He may not be _with her_ at all. _ _

__

__"Luke? Do you know where you are?"_ _

__

__"Your ship?" He asks, like it's a stab in the dark and winces, though Mara can't tell if it's from pain or if he's regretting the stupidity. Then he groans, "Oh no."_ _

__

__Mara places her hand on his shoulder, hoping it will ground him. "You're on one of Karrde ships, a cargo freighter. We have decent enough speed and defense, but I'm afraid the Wilde Karrde is about ten systems over and we're likely as not your only friends out here. Aran is a long way from Coruscant. You want to tell me what you were doing all the way out here on your own, getting shot up by Imperials and crashing?"_ _

__

__Artoo makes a few angry beeps at her, as if to say she ought to know better than to interrogate a concussed man hopped up on painkillers._ _

__

__Mara has done everything in her power to help them. She now has to get them all home safely. What she does not need is for Skywalker's droid to talk back or cast suspicion over her every decision. "We have yet to leave atmo and since hotshot here has neither a ship nor use of his arms, _I'm_ the one you'll be counting on to pilot us off this rock. I think we can all agree it would be best I know about any surprises before takeoff." _ _

__

__Artoo grumbles in concession._ _

__

__The mention of Imperials is enough to shake Luke out of his stupor. "Any sign I've been followed?"_ _

__

__Mara cocks an eyebrow. "We came in silent and landed with no sightings. Do you have reason to believe otherwise?"_ _

__

__"No, I," his gaze drifts back to his stump, then back up to her. "I don't remember crashing. Was anyone else hurt?"_ _

__

__"Not that we know of but don't be too surprised you don't remember. The scanner indicated you've had a concussion on top of one hell of a fever. Artoo will know your business leading up to the crash, but from what I can piece together, you crash-landed near a hill of Arachnoids. I showed them a lineup of ship profiles and they identified tie-fighters. When they found you in the wreckage, they brought you to their village. But Arachnoids are chitinous and don't know how to aid humanoids or deal with broken endoskeletons. Lucky for you, I was scheduled to trade with them today and they were thoughtful enough to offer to trade you, too."_ _

__

__"What happened to my arm?" he asks with more bite to it than Mara has heard from him before. Again, circumstances. And drugs._ _

__

__She walks over to the box and lifts out the remains to show him. "There was no saving it."_ _

__

__Luke recoils in surprise and his splinted hand moves as if he intended to reach out and touch the broken prosthesis, but wisely does not push himself. "Did you do the bandaging?"_ _

__

__"One of my crew mates got your leg. Artoo found the instructions on the prosthesis removal for me and I did the rest."_ _

__

__Luke nods, closing his eyes. Swallows hard as if to clear his throat. "Could I have some water?"_ _

__

__Mara knows it may have been a day or two since he last had a meal. "It may be safest start with ice chips. And if I give you the ice chips, you're going to sit there and let me fix your sling before you mess up the one hand you still have."_ _

__

__"Could I use the ‘fresher first? And. . .pants?"_ _

__

__Right. "Yes. Stay there, I'll be right back."_ _

__

__Mara returns with a cup full of ice and a pair of black pants she scrounged from the storage cupboard. For a split second after she rounds the corner, she sees him as the picture of misery that he is: eyes closed with puffy bruises underneath, shoulders slumped and clammy-skinned, hair mussed despite her effort. Spots of blood have eked through the bandage on his leg. Even his toes look cold. With half an arm missing and the other bandaged, his chest appears hollow. An illusion, of course. He straightens and at once his shoulders are as broad as they ever were, his jaw hardening even as his face takes on a neutral pose when he sees her starting._ _

__

__Why is obvious. He can't take the clothes from her. He can't take the ice. He probably can't stand without losing his modesty sheet._ _

__

__She hasn't forgotten he's responsible for their current situation and his own sorry state. Yet an insane urge to do. . .something, anything to put him aright twists up her insides. The sensation gnaws at her stomach, accompanied with emotions she is not accustomed to nor has she ever imagined she'd feel in association with Luke Skywalker._ _

__

__Mara takes pity on him._ _

__

__She holds the cup steadily, as he slowly fishes out ice chips with his two working fingers. When he hops off the med table, she is able to secure the sheet without further glimpses of anything too interesting and he takes the pants._ _

__

__His first few steps have an alarming limp._ _

__

__"You can lean on me."_ _

__

__"I can make it."_ _

__

__Mara says, "Sure," dry as a Tatooine afternoon. So she's not ideal, but she is doing her level best to help his unappreciative skin. His limping pace hitches, but he offers no rejoinder and does in fact make it all the way to the fresher on his own. Slowly. Mara does not hover, but does say, "I'll be outside if you need anything."_ _

__

__He says, "Thank you," even if it lacks his usual conviction._ _

__

__Mara has the terrible suspicion that either he's in a lot more pain than he's letting on, or he is distraught about his hand and missing memory. Or all these things, all at once. There's nothing she can do about either of his arms beyond taking him to the med center. Same for his missing memory of the crash. If he's mad at her for stars-knows-what, that's his problem and she's not about to let him make his hurt feelings be her problem._ _

__

__If it's pain, well. The dose of Atricane with his fluids should have been small, since Ellom's not dumb enough to give painkillers that also acts as blood thinners when someone is bleeding. But the scans didn't indicate he had internal bleeding and his leg wound was stitched and staunched. It may be safe to give him something different, now._ _

__

__Mara checks the supply cupboard again to find some very basic but effective pain tablets. They work fine for most humanoids, but for a Jedi's metabolism? Mara's not a doctor, but it’s common knowledge that Atricane and basic pain tablets can be combined, so long as the human has a strong liver._ _

__

__Luke takes longer in the 'fresher than she expects. She's not worried for him (he's moving around and she heard the sonic shower being used) but she wants to get back to her crew and off this rock. When he emerges, there's less strain in his features. His pants are on, but threaten to slip down over his hips._ _

__

__She holds both the ice chips and the tablets. "We don't have anything Jedi-strength onboard, but this should tide you over."_ _

__

__Luke grimaces at the pills. He can't _reach_. She'd a dunce and closes the distance for him. "Does it hurt?" _ _

__

__"I've felt better." He manages to fish out a few more ice chips, placing them in his mouth and waiting to let them melt a little. Then, he fishes out the pills in the same way, swallowing them down._ _

__

__While he does, Mara ties his pants as perfunctorily as she can manage. A flush creeps over his chest, up his neck, and dots his cheeks. She should have asked before securing his clothes, but really, what did it matter at this point? Caught in the impulse to lighten the mood, her mouth to runs. "Relax. You've so little to be embarrassed about."_ _

__

__He reddens and says, "Could you not add insult to injury?" while indicating he'd like more ice._ _

__

__She's done with the drawstring so she holds out the cup. "I know I shouldn't tease. It's just, it's such low-hanging fruit."_ _

__

__The ice is slippery. He's annoyed he has to fish around for a sliver. Annoyed by her, too but, her entendre is funny enough he's fighting a smile even as he wants to glower._ _

__

__"Don't get worked up, Skywalker. I wasn't about to let you die for modesty's sake." Mara indicates he should hop back on the table and takes out the bandage cloth she'd used to make his sling._ _

__

__He goes. "People die of mortification all the time."_ _

__

__It’s an atrocious pun, but tension is running high and an uncontrolled, singular laugh bursts out of Mara before she has a chance to stop herself. It takes them both by surprise. At least she can busy herself with the sling and pretend she has never found anything he's said funny, ever. He lets her, leaving the silence to be filled by the sound of the cloth wrapping and the crunch of ice against his teeth until even that stops._ _

__

__Luke clears his throat. "Ice?"_ _

__

__She should consider not complying. Too much water, too fast, could result in him puking it back up. Mara ties off the band. Luke's fingers are securely bound once more and he, technically, should avoid moving them if at all possible. She doesn't think forward to what this process will entail, not until she has an ice chip held up to his mouth. His hesitation. The way his dry lips cling together before he pries them open, ceding to circumstance. Her fingers are wet from the melted water and though she does her best to avoid touching him, his mouth brushes her fingertips._ _

__

__She wipes her hand on her pants, noting to herself that she has never fed another person in her life and immediately wraps the sling over his shoulder, securing it to his chest once more._ _

__

__Luke goes back to crunching on the ice._ _

__

__When she's satisfied, she says, "I should get back to my crew. Is there anything I missed?"_ _

__

__His mouth is full so he raises his stump as if to make a hand gesture and scowls angrily. It dissolves at once as he exhales and shoves the ice chunk into his cheek, saying, "Never mind," around it._ _

__

__"I can only fix problems I can see. You have to tell me if there's anything else."_ _

__

__"I think I hit my head."_ _

__

__The readings substantiate that he has a concussion. Mara pushes back his fringe, parting his hair to his scalp, examining the edge down to his temples for any sign of bruising or cuts._ _

__

__Luke leans into it, eyes half-open until he shakes his head and straightens his back. "Uh, the back. Of my head. It's hard to focus my thoughts." He huffs in frustration. "I'm high, aren't I?"_ _

__

__Mara gazes deep into his dilated eyes and clasps him upon his one good shoulder. "Yes Skywalker, I have drugged you."_ _

__

__He huffs again, and then, with a whine as he finds he can't fall back onto the mattress, says, "Broken hand."_ _

__

__"Yes. Let me help you lie back."_ _

__

__He winces going down and Mara immediately swoops over to support his neck._ _

__

__"The back of your head, right?"_ _

__

__"Yeah."_ _

__

__"What about your neck? Your shoulders?" Mara feels for and finds the ridge of his spine. It appears straight, even if his muscles are tense._ _

__

__"That's different. I had a fever, didn't I?"_ _

__

__"Yes. Do you remember being sick?"_ _

__

__The shutter moves under her fingertips. "Kind of. I hallucinated spiders everywhere. I don't think that, that doesn't count."_ _

__

__His breath hitches, but she barely put her hands on him._ _

__

__"Does that hurt?"_ _

__

__"Startled me." He closes his eyes. No doubt the lights are too bright._ _

__

__Mara continues, tilting his head and checking his left side, then finding a lump on the back right. "Is this where it's sore?"_ _

__

__"Yeah."_ _

__

__"You certainly have a bump. No cuts. I don't see any blood, only a bruise." It'll hurt for a while. "I'll have Artoo monitor you for a concussion while I'm away, but stay right here and rest. I'll fetch you a pillow."_ _

__

__He makes sound, a grumbled whine of disapproval. When Mara returns, it's with the promised pillow, a blue bathrobe, and socks. The robe she hangs off a scan machine for later, when he's feeling better. She pulls on the socks, resisting the urge to rub his cold feet to get warmth back in them. Like the ice, placing the pillow is more intimate than such a perfunctory task should be. Rather than being a clinical, medical necessity, its only real purpose is his comfort. Those crazy, dilated eyes are fixed on her, like he knows it, too. His Force signature is strong. Swirling around in a haphazard way, yes, but strong and reaching out to her._ _

__

__She tries to break the tension as she lifts his head. "You’re a lot of trouble."_ _

__

__"Yeah," he agrees, miserable. There's no humor in it._ _

__

__Mara doesn't laugh either. She may pity him, but the twinge of anger hasn't gone away. He never means to get himself into these situations, yet he hurls himself into trouble again and again. "I have a crew with me, Flyboy. If any of them gets hurt because I've dragged your ass on board, I'll bring it down on your head."_ _

__

__Solemn, he says, "I know."_ _

__

__"And don't apologize," she cuts him off because it's pathetic to ream him while he's down. "You're half-dead. I don't want to hear apologies until everyone is alive and I can punch you with a clear conscience."_ _

__

__She shakes out the sheet and drapes it over him._ _

__

__"You're a very nice lady."_ _

__

__Mara sighs. He's high as a Shalthdan steeple. "I'm such a nice lady, I'm going to put your ice chips right here. Go easy on them or you'll puke. Don’t imagine I’m so nice as to not make you clean up after yourself."_ _

__

__"I'm not gonna puke." One of the ice chips rises from the cup and floats, shaking, towards him. He squints with the effort._ _

__

__A loud warble and twitter of binary rolls toward her. Mara never thought she'd be so grateful for the little dust bin. "Artoo. Were you able to upload the intercept coordinates?"_ _

__

__It whistles the affirmative. The intel will be old news by now, but it will give her numbers and an idea of how many Imperials they're dealing with. Lowering her voice, she says to it, "Artoo? Stay here and monitor him for me. He's had a dose of Atricane because of the broken bones and I think it's peaking. It'll be downhill from here, so please keep an eye on him. He'll have no coordination and no hands. Do not let him wander. Do not let him do anything stupid."_ _

__

__Artoo concurs._ _

__

__Luke asks, "Artoo? Are you alright?"_ _

__

__Trilling happily, the little droid parks itself at Luke's side._ _

__

__"My lightsaber?" he asks Mara, but it's Artoo who replies, opening the secret compartment to reveal that it has safely stashed Luke's weapon. Who knows when it got its grabby little magna-clamps on it. Wrestled it from some Arachnoid, no doubt. When Luke shifts on the bed, as if he could retrieve it, the droid snaps the hatch shut and starts in on its own diatribe in binary, presumably following Mara's orders that Luke should remain still._ _

__

__Mara hears one of the crew approaching. The Force confirms it. "Luke, I have to prep for departure. Relax." With a hint of a threat adds, "I trust you won't do anything stupid."_ _

__

__"Captain Jade," Ellom calls out, "We're comm silent. Navigation's run tacit infrared on who-knows-what external data—"_ _

__

__"It's from Skywalker's R2 unit."_ _

__

__"Oh." Ellom glances at the gurney. "Good to see you awake, Sir."_ _

__

__"It is good to not be dead," replies Skywalker._ _

__

__"Aye," agrees Ellom before turning back to Mara. "There are three Imperial patrol ships up there. Corellian class."_ _

__

__"That's light armor. Two ties per ship. " Mara shakes her head. Patrol ships have hyperdrive and in theory can reach all the way out here on their own, but after a fire-fight with an X-wing, they'll be on the alert and calling for reinforcements if they haven't already. Given they had a fight with Skywalker, they’re probably down several fighters. "If they had found his ship they'd be on the ground scavenging it, not up there conducting a sweep. How the hell did we miss them on our way in?" Mara gestures for Ellom to lead the way back to the cockpit, then, as a quick aside before leaving says, "You hear that Artoo? Comms silent. Come get me if you need me."_ _

__

__Mara doesn't wait for the droid to trill before setting off after Ellom._ _

__

__"They're running quiet." Ellom shrugs. "Might be trying to finish their business quietly and get out. Might be waiting for reinforcements. Might be they've been searching long enough for the the X-wing they figure they'll never find it. If they've grown complacent we'll be lucky."_ _

__

__"I wouldn't count on it."_ _

__

__"Me neither," Ellom agrees. "The ladies and I will keep loading if you want to try anything fancy with the readings."_ _

__

__Mara gives her a curt nod. "Be ready to leave in a hurry."_ _

__

__"Will do," Ellom says. "And Captain?"_ _

__

__"Yes?"_ _

__

__"Your boyfriend cleans up real nice."_ _

__

__"Don't listen to shavit stories Dankin pours in your ears."_ _

__

__"I'd have to stop listening to everyone's shavit stories, Captain," she says, ducking out before Mara can straighten her out._ _

__

___When we're all safely off planet,_ she tells herself as she pulls the navicomputer's readings, _I'm going to have a slice of cake and break open one of the nice wines. A desert port; the Sice Strugure._ _ _

__

__Imagining herself relaxing in her cabin reminds her she'll have to put Skywalker up in a cabin. Which will mean putting him up in her cabin, since she's not going to kick Mina, T’nah and Ellom out of their tiny bunk room and no one deserves to sleep on the bench in the storage room. And Skywalker can't climb, so he'll have to take the lower bunk. The one she'd taken as her bed._ _

__

__It's irrational to be angry at him when he did not hurt himself on purpose, but why does it always have to be him? Why does it always have to be _her_?_ _


	2. Chapter 2

Ellom's assessment is correct. Imperial patrol ships are patrolling at a distance, low and quiet. There's no sign of backup or an enforcer ship among the readings, but this area of Aran is at the end of the solar cycle. They could wait until nightfall when any Imperial vessel large enough to give them trouble would be blatantly visible in the upper atmosphere of the night sky, reflecting sunlight like a moon. If there was even a small twinge from her Force sense warning her of danger, Mara might be worried. There's nothing. These patrol ships may be scouts. Or pirates pretending to be Imperials, given that the main use of Imperial patrols had been the promise reprisals rather than every patrol acting as an enforcer themselves. It wouldn't be the first time Mara has encountered pirates masquerading as Imperials to avoid detection, but given they have Skywalker in their medbay, she doubts it. 

 

In any event, Mara calculates their projected trajectories, sets the navicomputer to monitor the patrol ship for any deviation towards their actual location, and returns to loading the bay. There's not much to do and in less than an hour she and Mina are done. 

 

Mara sends Ellom to the helm to monitor the Imperials while she goes to visit the Arachnoids. She gives cautionary instructions to the Grand Mother about the threat posed to her hive, through no fault of their own, and measures they may take to avoid detection. They come up with a strategy for concealing the fire wire and wool in the event the Imperial patrols decide to come down for a closer look. As for Skywalker' wrecked ship, the Grand Mother sends the best of her drone daughters to conceal it. They're the closest hive to the wreck and may fall under suspicion if things happen to go south and the Imperials find it. Mara intends to divert the danger away from the colony, but warns them that they may not be able to return in the next season, though will take action to remove the nuisance sky-ships altogether. It's not news the Grand Mother nor colony wants to hear, but they bid one another farewell on good terms, neither expecting this to be their last trade. 

 

When Mara returns to the helm, Ellom is wearing a giddy expression. "Did you notice they're flying a regular pattern?" 

 

"Yes. Did they come in for a third pass?" 

 

"Yup. We could slip through the gap when the go for the fourth." 

 

"Risky." 

 

"Sure, they might have something bigger with a tractor beam further out, but what are the chances it will happen to be in position to catch us before we jump?" 

 

"Not us. Risky to our contacts. We can't exactly knock on the door of the next colony over and expect they'll be happy to trade intel with us after sky ships wipe out their neighbors." 

 

"I'm a little more concerned about saving our skins." 

 

"It hasn't come down to that." 

 

"Hasn't, but it could. There's a storm system rolling in, too. It may give us cover or mess with the navigation. Or disrupt their predictable sweep." 

 

All true. "We need a diversion. Something to distract them. Make them think they've located the crash and lets us slip by." 

 

Ellom pulls a rough topographical map of the local terrain. It's only what the ship navigation system pulled before they landed, so it's very, very rough. "They know he went down somewhere in the radius of where they're sweeping." 

 

The Imperials aren't that far off the mark. They'll inevitably widen their sweep and, on a planet that has little technology on it, find it if given enough time. "Is there anything tall? Cliff? Mountain? Preferably beyond their target region?" 

 

"Lots of mountains here." Ellom drums her fingers excitedly. "You have an idea." 

 

"I have one. The trouble is getting the pedal bin to agree." 

 

 

*** 

 

 

"The damage would only be superficial, Artoo." Mara glances at the cloth partition delineating the hall from the medical alcove. Luke was resting when she asked to speak with Artoo, but he may be awake now that they've started talking. 

 

Artoo counters that taking some of his dome paneling to dress up the decoy would only buy them a few more minutes. 

 

"The navicomputer takes seconds to calculate a jump." She invites Artoo to review the computer data. "Minutes will give us the leg room we need. Unless you'd rather explain to your master how an entire semi-sentient species was wiped out because you wouldn't part with your precious paneling, this is the plan." 

 

It whines. Yes, it was a low-blow. 

 

"You know I'm good for finding you a replacement. It'll be pretty. In blue." 

 

It makes inquiries about plating and alloys. 

 

"If you're that picky it's a wonder you haven't replaced the old plating yourself. I will buy you replacements, the very same or better. Deal?" 

 

It agrees. 

 

It doesn't take long to scan Artoo's unit's dome measurements and remove some of the plating with but a few sad rumbles from the chassis. Once the paneling is removed, Artoo inquires about helping her. 

 

"I appreciate the offer," Mara replies, "but you need to stay here and monitor Skywalker." 

 

"I can help," Skywalker says. "I'm good with droids and welders." 

 

Mara pulls back the curtain. "Skywalker." 

 

"Yeah?" Dazed, he has propped himself up on the elbow that hasn't been bandaged to his chest. 

 

"When you're sober enough to appreciate it, I'm going to describe to you the image that has formed in my head. One of you wielding a plasma torch, in your condition. I’m going to cherish it." 

 

He struggles to find words, the combination of drugs and a dry mouth preventing him. "I want to help." 

 

A laugh escapes from her because, bless him, he means it. She'll tell him all about this, too. "I appreciate the offer, but take it easy, Skywalker." 

 

She leaves with the parts. 

 

Then Mara and T'nah lay into the translator. 

 

It's a patch job. There's the matter of making its domed top more like an R2 unit's and re-configuring the gentle propulsion system into something that will propel it many, many leagues quickly but not blow it up. It takes a respectable three hours. More than enough time for Ellom and Mina to get through a round of sabbac and for a pair of Arachnoid drones to stop by the ship and produce the map to the X-wing, as promised. All this barely ahead of the storm. 

 

They launch the decoy as the winds and dust kick up. The sky turns a sickly, muddy orange as the sun sets. 

 

"Storm will be bad," predicts T'nah. 

 

"All the better for us to go unnoticed." Mara joins Ellom in the cockpit. It will be some time before the decoy translation module makes it to its destination. It will travel through the storm, now in full swing, and trees and cliffs. If it can make it at all. It's going to be a waiting game. 

 

"Can we have cake?" Ellom asks. 

 

"Cake is for after we slip past the Imperial dragnet alive." 

 

"Which would you rather, Captain: die with a belly full of cake or no?" Ellom stops her pacing to kick at the back of the copilot's chair. 

 

"If cake on the other side of the blockade is what it takes to motivate you to get us there, then no cake." 

 

The dimmed warble that can only be an R2 unit's reluctant distress signal pings. 

 

Both Mara and Ellom lean over the display to see if the Imperials have taken the bait. Initially there's no sign the patrol is deviating, not until the second ping of distress from the translation module trills. Then, the dots on their monitor reconfigure. 

 

"They're falling for it," says Ellom, leaning over the consol. 

 

"Don't." Mara doesn't want anyone to get too excited. "Run back and tell everyone to strap in." 

 

Mara waits. If this is to work, the Imperials need to be invested in the search for the decoy droid, enough that they dip into the interference of the storm before they're even revving their cargo boat's engines. They can't risk the Imperials ever noticing a jump into hyperspace. With the Imperial's equipment momentarily scrambled, there will be nothing of their light freighter to trace, let alone give any indication of the locations for the Arachnoid home or crashed X-wing. It's a small keyhole to slice. Dangerous enough to compel her to check her danger sense through the Force rather than wait for passive instrument warning. 

 

Nothing. 

 

The third Imperial patrol ship sinks low enough into the atmosphere that they'll have hit the storm layer. They've lined up to make a dragnet, sweeping for their decoy. 

 

Time to go. 

 

Ellom slides into the copilot chair as Mara hedges the tree line—a tree line that would be invisible in the gloom of nightfall if the trees weren't being whipped around, gleaming in flashes of lightning. 

 

"I got your inamorato strapped in." 

 

Mara grinds her teeth. "Watch your mouth." 

 

In half-accusation, Ellom says, "You bought him," buckling in. 

 

Stars help her if this falls on Skywalker's ears. "I bought his droid. I took him off their hands for free." 

 

Ellom's noncommittal, "Mmm," is comment enough. 

 

They make great time. Secure under their covert shielding that gives them the profile of a bird and storm cover, Mara opts to continue using the Force to maintain her vigilance. When they are far enough away, the navicomputer will have a few calculations to make after they break atmosphere. That's when they will be most vulnerable. When she will have to be synchronous with the ship. When she'll need complete focus. 

 

From a distance, Artoo's vehement indignation is interspersed with desperate concern. 

 

She cannot deal with her crippled passenger. "Do not make me come back there!" 

 

Too late. Skywalker is at the cabin door, leaning his forearm—the one with the stump—against the jamb. At least his broken hand is properly wrapped and secured to his chest as she'd left it. His voice has a distant quality even as his Force presence bursts in on her concentration. "Make the jump." 

 

"Sky—" 

 

Firm, he says, "They've found the decoy." 

 

Mara orders Ellom, "Do it," as she releases her own harness. 

 

Because he's not brain dead, Skywalker staggers towards a jump seat, but he is an idiot to come here with no thought for his own safety given he has no hands. 

 

Mara shoves him into the seat and pulls the straps even as she feels the swell of the Force surrounding them. 

 

"I have it," he says. "Go back." 

 

Mara finishes buckling him. Even as she does, she knows she's running out of time. Ellom obeys the order to get them out of atmosphere to make the jump and there's a tilting sensation when the artificial gravity compensates. She knows as well as Mara that there's no time for hesitation. The spare seconds Mara needs to get back to her own seat and strap in are gone. Her guts swoop even as she prepares to make a last-ditch leap, going so far as to reach for the Force. 

 

The Force reaches back. 

 

Later, she will reflect upon how she accepted the protective embrace of the Force without question. How if she'd had any thought behind it, she may have rejected any overt aid via the Force offered by Skywalker. 

 

Except she does accept it, her weight slamming into him. Pain bursts through their connection as he holds her awkwardly, if securely in place in his lap through the Force more than his arm wrapped around waist. The metal plate at the end of his arm digs into her side. Jumping to hyperspace is all but instantaneous, sparing them the indignity and discomfort of this lasting any longer. 

 

The moment the star lines become consistent streaks, Mara is on her feet. 

 

"What were you thinking?" She regrets her words as soon as they leave her mouth. He is not thinking. She drugged him out of his mind. 

 

And yet, with a calm, measured voice he says, "This mess is my responsibility. I sensed the danger and had to be sure we were safe." 

 

"You could have used the _intercom_." 

 

Skywalker releases the harness. Using the Force. Because he didn't really need the full use of his hands to manipulate objects. His eyes are clear. Focused. He isn't high anymore. He winces as he shrugs a strap from his shoulder. "I didn't exactly know where to press for the intercom. Even so, I wasn't in danger." 

 

Because he is no longer high and could have strapped himself into a harness without her aid. 

 

“Oh, gee,” Ellom breaks the thick silence with exaggerated enthusiasm, unstrapping her harness and beats a hasty exit. From the corridor, she adds in a too-loud voice, “There’s cake in the stores. I suppose I’ll have a nice, big slice.” 

 

Half of Mara’s heart is screaming at Skywalker. The other is sick and tired of fighting, so she extends a hand to help him to his feet. "You cleared your system of painkillers?" 

 

"I prefer to be clear headed in a crisis. You'd feel the same." 

 

She would. "I had things under control." 

 

"Yes," Infuriatingly, he agrees, even managing a half grin in spite of the pain he no doubt is experiencing after she jostled his broken hand. "You thought of my well-being before your own." 

 

Mara can't bear to have it spoken. Cold and tired, anger grinds out of her before she thinks better of it. "I thought you were a corpse. I thought you were _dead_." Mara's grateful he doesn't have full use of his arms; he might try to hug her if he did. "This wasn't a first. We both know it won't be the last." 

 

Adamant, he assures her, "I don't have a death wish." 

 

"You'll still press your luck until it runs out. The reason doesn't matter when the results are the same." 

 

He takes her in with a critical glint in his eye. "Is that why," he struggles with shaping the words for his thoughts. "Is that what has kept you away?" 

 

"Worry about yourself," she snaps. 

 

"You think I shouldn't worry about you, too?" he asks. "Your work takes you interesting places." 

 

"I have enough sense to keep out of trouble." 

 

Skepticism sours his expression, blunting the corners of his mouth. If he chose to argue the point, he could. Easily. Mara has spoken from anger, not from any place of reason and she knows it. Reason would necessitate admitting she risked her own life for reasons half as noble. If not for his injuries and blatant discomfort standing, maybe he would belabor the point. As is, he's weary. 

 

"I've accepted that my friends take risks by choice. It's who they are. You risked your crew for me and they don't show any resentment. I owe you and them." 

 

Mara closes off and swallows back the foolish tirade. Bubbling under the surface is the desire to confess how, for the fractured instant she thought him dead, her first emotion was not grief, but blinding rage. That her instinct was to slaughter in an outright fit of vengeance. She says, "Not an excessive risk. If not for you, we might not have known the planet was being surveyed until it was too late." 

 

"I'm happy some good came out of my mistake." He winces and draws in on himself, positioning his body to conceal his stump. 

 

That certainly deflates what's left of the fight in her. She can be angry at him again when she's capable of arguing from a place of reason. And when he's not in pieces. 

 

Especially when he's not in pieces. 

 

"I should get some food into you," Mara says offhand. 

 

Skywalker brightens. “I hear there's cake.” 

 

Mara glares at him. “Cake is for the people who did work on this mission. I wouldn’t give you any even if your stomach could handle it.” He shouldn’t have any, given the ‘cake’ is layers of thin-crushed nuts, paper-thin sheets of pastry, and honey. Her frown deepens. He's crestfallen and looks down the causeway, though doesn't make a move for it. She asks, "Did the water settle?" 

 

"I'll be alright," he assures. Which is not a direct answer. “But I could use something to eat.” 

 

He's waiting for her to go first so he can follow. Normally she would without hesitation, but it'd be easier to monitor his progress and support him if she follows. Still, he's waiting so Mara goes. “If you had stayed put you’d have your fill of ice chips right now.” 

 

“I was thinking of something a little more substantial.” 

 

By his gait, the gentle patter of his stockings on the metal, tells her he's limping. She gets to the end of the causeway, hops the step down, and waits for him. 

 

He falters in what has been a steady, if lilting gait. Grim-faced he plods over to Mara. Without prompting she places a hand on his arm. It's not the broken one and she intends to let him lean on her, but he shudders. 

 

Mara's drumming up the words to ask what’s wrong as he takes the step. 

 

He knows what she'll say and heads her off. "I'm fine." 

 

"You may want to rephrase." 

 

"Stop," he says, sharp, and she lets go. His face crumbles, too. "I can't right now. I'm nauseous and hungry and I'm pretty sure a bunch of strangers saw me naked. I'm at peak miserable." 

 

"They'll be nice about it." Mara means to sound reassuring, but it comes out threatening. "And I have something for the nausea. It's a little chalky, but I can mix it in with food. It works." 

 

He takes a few deep breaths before plodding on. Mara remains at his shoulder directing him, though it's not far and doesn't take long. 

 

T'nah and Ellom have set a lovely spread of tea, fruit, and, in the middle, the golden, sugary nut cake. 

 

Around a mouthful, Mina bids, "Welcome." 

 

Apologetically T'nah says, "We know the fruit was for midweek breakfast, but we thought to have an occasion." 

 

"Good," Mara says. It's occasion enough. She directs Luke to take a seat. "I'll fix up something you can stomach," and to her crew, “He isn’t allowed cake on pain of watching him throw it up.” 

 

As she leaves, she hears Ellom say, “Tough break, Sir." 

 

The familiar whirring and whistles of Artoo roll their way and Mara's somewhat relieved by the loyal droid's presence. There's no doubt in her mind it will be of comfort to Luke. 

 

The kitchenette equipment is loud enough that whatever conversation is happening in the lounge is a dim murmur. When the warmer pings, she hears Luke say, “Mara bought me and _cake_?” 

 

“Six dozen cakes,” T’nah clarified with admiration. 

 

Mara interrupts, places a steaming cup of nerf broth in front of Skywalker, drops in a straw, and snatches up the plate of cake in front of T’nah. “They are my cakes.” 

 

T’nah raises a knowing eyebrow only when Skywalker’s attention settles upon Mara eating her slice. She has the decency to say nothing and cuts a new slice for herself. 

 

“It looks wonderful,” he says. 

 

“Drink the broth and I’ll let you have a bite.” 

 

He concentrates on the straw, distinctly holding it in place with the Force so he can sip at it. On account of their company, she thinks better of announcing she added the anti-nausea medication. He had been miserable at the thought the others had seen him naked. Bringing him to the lounge to eat where his injuries and vulnerability is on display was thoughtless of her. 

 

She's a tactless caretaker. 

 

Outwardly, there's no sign he's upset. 

 

At least T'nah is considerate. "It is not enjoyable to have a rebellious stomach after a fever. Do you think you can manage a little fruit, Master Skywalker? The melon is not too acidic." 

 

"I'll have a little after I finish this," he says. 

 

In a mock whisper Mina says, "We'll save you some cake if Mara won't let you have any." Then, in a normal tone, "We owe you for the warning about the Imperials" 

 

Mara corrects her. "We owe the droid for the warning. It gave us the last known locations of the enemy ships." 

 

"Good work Artoo," Luke commends. 

 

It chitters happily under his praise. Then, its dome swivels and it rolls over to Mara. She's not well versed in binary, not when it's spoken in excited, rapid bursts, but the questioning up-trill and shake of its scavenged dome is easy enough to interpret. 

 

"I've not forgotten my promise. Phorsa Gedd has custom manufacturing shops everywhere." The whole planet is industrialized. "I'll have you and your master well-kitted." 

 

"How long until we arrive?" Luke asks. 

 

"Four days," Mara replies. 

 

This draws the attention of her crew. T'nah asks, "Have you informed Karrde?" 

 

"Not yet." Mara isn't looking forward to it. "But he'll understand." 

 

Mina asks, "Do you think we can all visits the shops?" 

 

Mara can sense the gearheads' buzz growing at the prospect of stopping at a planet where they can obtain parts wholesale. 

 

"I'll know shortly." To Luke she adds, "I haven't had a chance to contact your sister either, but we can." 

 

"Thanks," he says. Sincere, certainly, but can't conceal his grimace at the thought of his sister's response to his predicament. 

 

Her crew devolves into arguing about the best ways to retrofit a 3L5K skiff. Mara chooses to savor her portion of desert with a little wine rather than join in the conversation or make polite encouragements as Luke does. Intent, he listens as they discuss merits of boosting motors without interrupting their conversation, no sign of discomfiture. 

 

Now is a good time to excuse herself; she can finish her wine later. She places a reassuring hand on Luke's shoulder. "I'm going to comm Karrde. Come by my cabin to comm your sister whenever you're done." 

 

"Aright," he agrees. He's nearly there and is eyeing the fruit. 

 

Artoo gives a solid, confirmatory whistle. She knows the little snoop has the ship's layout so doesn't worry they might get lost. 

 

After a short stop at the medical alcove to pick up his medication for later, there's nothing left to do but make the call. 

 

It goes about as well as she expects. He's not happy about the delay, but it's always a risk during exploratory missions. 

 

Severely, he says, "I'll have to take you off the Melishitoni job." 

 

It's annoying to know a job must be done without her, but she doesn't disagree. "Yes." 

 

"I can arrange for you to be docked for a few days while Skywalker convalesces." 

 

"Are you sure that's wholly necessary?" She does not specify a length of time on purpose. "I've only promised to have the droid fitted." 

 

Karrde tilts his head. "Certainly after so harrowing an," and here, Karrde's sabbac face slips, "injury as Skywalker has had—" 

 

Annoyed, Mara says, "He could have died." 

 

"Yes. All the more reason why the poor man ought to be among familiar company while he rehabilitates." 

 

"He'll be comming his sister once we're done. I'm sure she'll want to provide him company." 

 

"Good." Karrde approves. "She'll no doubt be able to free up enough time in a standard week while you take in the sights and," he snort-laughs, "buy her brother off you." 

 

Mara throws up her hands, "I did not! I bought cake," and makes an involuntary sucking sound through her teeth in annoyance. She knows full well Karrde is riling her up on purpose and shouldn't give him the satisfaction. And she ought to be glad his merriment has put him in a fine enough mood to not be too upset over the turn of events. 

 

He's clever enough to read Mara's face and knows to change the subject. "How did they do?" 

 

Mara knows he means the crew. "They impressed me." 

 

"You're not easily impressed." 

 

"They were professional. None of them are medics but they put every ounce of basic training into use and no one has made any cute remarks at his expense. Just mine." Mara adds, "Ellom's getting very good." 

 

"She's restless." 

 

"She thinks fast and follows orders." 

 

"You'll send me a brief?" 

 

"Always." 

 

He nods, clasping his hands together as he wraps up the comm. "I'll keep you appraised of Melishitoni. And Mara?" 

 

"Yes?" 

 

"You did very well. You've earned a week off, same as everyone else." 

 

"As you say, sir." Mara signs off and begins working on her report. 

 

It's not long before she hears the hum of Artoo's rollers and Skywalker's plodding at her door. 

 

Luke limps inside her cabin. Guileless, he takes in the blank walls and utilitarian furnishings, the double-bunk and neat rows of drawers. 

 

"I'm done with Karrde. He's granted us a week. Phorsa Gedd's only four days away, which should give us enough time to get you where you're going and see to checked in. If you'd like." 

 

His eyes widen. "Yes. I'd like that." 

 

Mara releases a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "Good. I expect you want to comm Senator Organa?" 

 

He motions vaguely, saying, "Yes," as Mara turns on the comm and sets up the line so that all he'll have to manage is the dial. 

 

"The line is as secure as anything NRI has, but be aware anything you say or transmit we can recall from the system." 

 

A muscle in his jaw tics, but it's nothing he didn't expect. "Yeah. I'll keep it in mind." 

 

"Karrde's ship. Karrde's rules." And before she leaves, she adds, "Is it safe to assume you'll want to be in a healing trace for the duration of the trip?" 

 

"Yeah. Without the fever and concussion I can concentrate." 

 

Mara expected as much. "I'll be back in about 20 minutes to see you situated." 

 

On her way out, she pats Artoo's side as it toodles farewell. 

 

Taking her datapad with her, Mara heads to the cockpit for final checks, intending to avoid her crew and clear her head. 

 

Ellom has beaten her to it, greeting Mara with, "Abandoning your charge?" 

 

"He's capable of making a comm, believe it or not." Mara goes through the motions of the checks, but all is in order. Ellom has things well in hand. "You did will today. Not everyone can roll with the punches and you didn't hesitate." 

 

"Thank you, ma'am," Ellom replies. "I was scared as hell." 

 

It's not a thing smugglers admit to, not lightly and not without trust. "Yeah. Me too." Mara grimaces. "I won't lie and tell you it gets any easier." 

 

"I appreciate it." 

 

"But you did well." 

 

With a sarcastic wobble of her head, Ellom declares, "I am pretty good." It's an effective tactic to end the heart-to-heart Mara can appreciate. "You can leave me to make checks and check out your in—" 

 

Mara pierces that _word_ with a glare. 

 

"—invalid." 

 

"Better. I know you like to poke fun, but you best not make him uncomfortable." 

 

"Sure thing, captain." 

 

There's nothing left for her to do here; she came to the helm to avoid the commons in the first place. The only thing left to do is alert the medcenter on Phorsa Gedd they're enroute and send them Skywalker's vital stats. She sends the alert from their little med alcove. They're slow to respond and she almost gives up to return to her cabin, but a response comes through. Reading carefully, she confirms the medication and bacta should be enough to prevent further infection and fever. As for the bone-setting, it looks as it should though she should have remembered the bone regen meds. An idiot child would remember bone regen meds. She pockets a bottle. 

 

Otherwise, Skywalker's prognosis is good and all is in order until she reaches the section regarding his amputation. A yellow triangle with the doctor symbol for psychology in it reads _Caution_. What follows stirs up memories from her basic psychology class: phantom limbs, how the loss of a prosthesis is interpreted by the brain as the same as losing a living limb. 

 

There's part of her whining that this is _Luke_ and he's _fine_. Sensibility wins out. Skywalker is not the exception to every rule and there's no point in not showing a grown man his own med report. Even if he's not experiencing. . .trauma from his loss, it can't hurt him to be informed. 

 

Decidedly, she goes back to the commons. Mina and T'nah have taken up a longform strategy game that's liable to take hours to finish. Mara fills up on ice chips and slices off an extra piece of the nut cake. 

 

They have the courtesy to wait until she has left and plausible deniability sets in before they dissolve into fits of laughter.


	3. Chapter 3

Before she can press the buzzer to her own cabin, Artoo is opening the hatch. 

 

"Really, I have to go," Skywalker tells the image of his sister. "Mara's back. She'll want her room to herself." 

 

"Hello Mara," Organa Solo greets her over her brother's shoulder. "If I've understood the situation, we owe you a debt of gratitude for stepping in on Luke's behalf." 

 

"Don't thank me before you see what Karrde's charging you." 

 

"I'm sure," she replies, dryly, and then to her brother, "It will be about a week before I can make it to Phorsa Gedd. Are you sure you'll be alright?" 

 

"I'm worse for wear, but I'll be fine." 

 

"Take care of yourself, Luke," she bids with a none too subtle glance at his stump, worried. "I'll come as soon as I can." 

 

"I know you will." With a final farewell, he signs off. 

 

Mara clears her throat. "I brought you ice and cake." 

 

Luke spins the chair around, head cocked to the side with a glimmer of mischief in his eye. "There was a whole production about how I wasn't to have any cake. You said, 'on pain of watching me throw it up' I could have some cake." 

 

She places the items on the desk in front of him. "When I was a teen, I had a bad injury that landed me in a medcenter. Broken ribs, punctured lung. I required surgery and after, the pain wasn't half as terrible as the thirst. I asked for water, but the nurse would only sponge my mouth and tell me to go easy. Being who I was, I thought common human frailties were beneath me. I took a glass of water and food from another patient's tray. I puked. Have you ever had the pleasure of vomiting with broken ribs?" 

 

He winces and side eyes the treat with newfound distaste. "I'd rather not." 

 

"I could have had a tall glass of water at the end of the day if I'd waited. Instead, I spent two days dry-heaving." 

 

"With the broken ribs." 

 

"Doctors can speed up the healing process, but not that quickly," Mara confirms. "I'm not trying to torture you." 

 

"I never thought you were. I had to do the ice chip thing before, when." He cuts off his own words, but they both know when. 

 

Mara doesn't acknowledge any floundering and cuts the cake into bite sized pieces. "You were fine with the other food and I did slip that anti-nausea medication into your drink. You can have at it." 

 

"I'm no longer sure I should," he says, even as he eyes the cake. 

 

"Take it a bite at a time. And it's better to take bone mending medication on a full stomach." 

 

"I knew my wellbeing was your ulterior motive. " 

 

Mara offers up the cake on a spoon. 

 

At the limit of his self-restraint, Luke smiles at first taste. "Could be the hunger talking, but that is amazing." 

 

"The pastry sheets are ground nut flour. They take a lot of effort to bake and are considered a delicacy." 

 

"I can see why. At least there's some protein to go with all the sugar." 

 

Any claim to nutrition is supercilious. It's layered pastry, nuts, spice, and lots of thick honey. Mara mentions none of this. "Halfway healthy, I'm sure." 

 

"What's the spice?" he asks between bites. 

 

"Ground up tree bark. I know, I regretted asking, too." 

 

Luke continues to be pleased by the confection. Feeding him requires patience, but is less onerous or awkward because it so clearly lifts Luke's spirits. Halfway through he accepts the bone medication with a wince. He's lucky to have such a nice chaser. With the last morsel downed, he gives an unintended whine, but doesn't complain. "Is there anything else I should take?" 

 

"I have painkillers." 

 

"I'll take whatever will let me keep my head." 

 

Mara can't blame him and helps him take the pain pill with ice chips. "I took the liberty of forwarding your medical readout to the medcenter. They'll be expecting you." 

 

He nods his approval, "Good." 

 

"They also sent back—" Artoo has already posted the missive on the view screen for Luke to read. Mara knows full well that the only way the droid has obtained it is by pulling the report from what were supposed to be _private communication logs_. She's miffed, but doesn't see the point in protesting. Artoo had been warned. It could continue to hack at its own risk, "—your prognosis. I. . .took the liberty of checking it." 

 

She may have taken on the role of administering his medical care, but no one is more contentious she's not a doctor than Mara and Luke did not give her permission to snoop. 

 

"I don't mind," he says, though for politeness's sake, what else could he say? 

 

Mara chooses to take him at his word. "The infection and fever are gone. Your bones will mend. But you have a severe concussion and we're not equipped to cure it on the spot. Artoo, if you wouldn't mind monitoring him?" 

 

Artoo chirps and Luke gives a weak, if fond, smile to his droid. "I appreciate it." 

 

"They're sending for the designs of your old hand, but they'll have access to better models. It will take time to calibrate it to your neural system." 

 

"I'm familiar with the process," he says, curt, bordering on interrupting her and as soon as his frustration escapes him, he grimaces. Tiredly, he apologizes, "That came out too harsh, I don't mean—" 

 

"You've nothing to apologize for." Mara dismisses with a casual shrug. She has been judgmental, too, and he doesn't deserve it. "We're not our best selves at the moment." 

 

"No, I should apologize." He grumbles his self-flagellation, his head ducking. "Why shouldn't you be upset? You're put your neck out for me. Yourself and your crew." 

 

The hair at the back of his neck proves too tempting, too soft not to touch. It's all too natural an act to sooth it down. 

 

"Not to mention my trading partners?" The words may be harsh, but her touch is gentle. "The situation was bad all-around, Skywalker. That isn't necessarily anyone's fault. Mina was right. Finding you alerted us to the danger we'd stumbled into. We made the best of a bad situation, and it's not as if I'd have left you to die." She hates the words the instant they slip out of her mouth and, though she stops petting him like a child, she can't quite stop herself from adding, "I spent a long time wishing you were dead. When I saw you, when I thought it'd really happened. . .I didn't kill you, but it felt like I'd brought it on, like wishing made it true." 

 

There's an adage that suits the situation that comes to mind: _the heart will have what it's set upon when it breaks_. 

 

Concern radiates from the depths of those blue eyes; perhaps he's too stunned to utter platitudes. Mara feels foolish. 

 

"I'm very glad we're friends, Mara," he says. It's the best and worst response. 

 

"Me, too," Mara agrees at once. "I wasn't—I'm not angry at you." 

 

"I'm mad at myself, too," he admits. When optimistic and in good cheer, Mara can find Luke irritating. However, a despondent, frustrated Luke goes against the natural order of things and she doesn't like it. "I was on a recon mission. I was so sure I could handle it on my own. Anyone else would have been forced to take a partner with them, but NRI has gotten used to letting me carry on, on my own terms. I've grown too used to it." 

 

Mara can't resist teasing him. "Believing your own press Jedi Skywalker?" 

 

Her hand has a mind of its own. She reaches out for his hair, again, combing it into place. She should stop. There's a chance he could find it condescending yet he leans into it. "So unlike you." 

 

"Won't catch me doing that again." 

 

"No. We don't make the same mistakes twice." 

 

With a wry, humorless smile, he motions with his stump. "Almost don't." 

 

"Not the same," she says, firmly, her nails scratching at his scalp as if he has an itch. The doctor's note on the med report had warned the experience may feel the same. While she knows the generalities of how he lost his hand the first time, she doesn't dare presume she'd ever understand what it was like, nor the frustration of a phantom limb. 

 

He sighs and closes his eyes. "You're right. It's not." 

 

Mara's not tactile. Not usually. It's Skywalker who is not shy about demonstrating his affection. He leans into her touch, his eyes half-closed in either relief or grief, all evidence indicating he does not want her to stop. Not that he has another option available here. She must be an acceptable substitute. Maybe taking it upon herself to see to his wellbeing has inspired the urge to fulfill this nurturing role. It may be nothing more than her own selfishness of the ilk that would be inappropriate to indulge while Skywalker is dependent upon her good will. He is too important. So, she does not give in to the urge to sooth him beyond touching his hair, but she does not stop. 

 

"I take it you'll want to spend the rest of our trip healing?" she asks. 

 

He does not pause long. "Yeah. It'll be nice to heal without the possibility of being eaten by giant spiders looming over me." 

 

"Ah. Was that why you didn't go into a healing trance? They're civilized enough not to eat other sentients." 

 

He quirks an eyebrow, "I was concussed, feverish, and everything hurt, so no, I did not find the giant spiders reassuring." 

 

"You'll find our accommodations are better." 

 

That earns her a smile. It's enough; she has indulged too much. 

 

"Come. I'll pour you some teeth rinse and let you use the fresher before bed." 

 

His forehead brushes against her stomach when he nods which alerts him to his own supine state, as though he'd not realized he was tired. He sits up. Mara keeps a hand to his back as he stands then ambles with a faint limp. 

 

Cautious of how his leg is healing, she says, "I'll check the bandage when you're lying down." 

 

With a tilt of her head and pointed glance, she indicates the bottom bunk. 

 

"I don't mean to put you out." 

 

"It's here or the bench in storage," she says. "I can fold down the top bunk. Protests in the name of politeness will get you nowhere." 

 

"Where I'm from, one customary polite protest is the minimum." 

 

"A single polite protest? On Tatooine?" 

 

"We lived on the frontier. No one has much of anything, so asking or offering favors of your neighbors who have as little as you is more often than not life or death. It's a way of acknowledging you know the favor you ask is a sacrifice." 

 

It has its own logic. "It's a bunk, Skywalker." 

 

"Yeah," he deadpans. 

 

"Not even a comfortable one." 

 

"You don't like it?" 

 

"I've slept in better. And worse." 

 

They make it to the fresher without incident. Mara pours the tooth-cleaning foam into a cup and holds it to his lips. 

 

"I can handle the rest," he assures her once he's spat it out, shrugging off the robe as if that proves his point. Or to draw attention to the fact he wishes for privacy. He has nothing she has not seen, but this time she experiences a creeping awareness that she is at a boundary that may stretch past his notions of modesty. 

 

Mara unfocuses her eyes to prevent herself from staring at any of him in particular. "Do you want me to wait outside?" 

 

"I shouldn't be long." 

 

She goes, knowing he can easily call on her if he has need of her. 

 

As it is, he's back in a reasonable amount of time. This has not stopped Artoo from having hovered by the entry hatch. Pants tied (poorly), robe draped over his stump, he greets his droid. 

 

"Have you found a compatible adapter?" 

 

The droid whistles an affirmative. 

 

Skywalker adds, "And have you met the ship's computer?" with the air of someone well aware of his companion's snoopy tendencies. 

 

Artoo's dome swivels its scope to view Mara, briefly, as if it worried a report from her quarter may be forthcoming. 

 

She doesn't know what possesses her to say, "This ship's not a conversationalist, but I know for a fact the subroutines fleet-wide have been running Havoc. You can see if it will allow you to join the tournament." 

 

That cheers the droid considerably, judging by the slew of inquisitive noises it beeps at her about playing the game. 

 

"I'm not a droid, how should I know? Go ask the main computer," Mara orders. 

 

It rolls off as Luke calls, "Don't get into trouble," and then to Mara, "He gets bored easily, but he doesn't mean any harm." 

 

Mara shrugs. The main reason Artoo snoops is because the droid doesn't trust her. "He's been helpful." She then takes the robe with an, "Allow me," and pulls back the bed sheet so that he can lay down. 

 

He raises his stump as if he has forgotten he has no hand to grasp the ledge of the upper bunk. At least he can seat himself. He starts to lie back and winces. 

 

Even before he asks, "Could you help me?" Mara recognizes the problem. Slowly lying back—even propping himself on one elbow—is painful given his shoulder, bruised head, and broken hand. Falling back is out of the question. Mara places one knee on the bed and, holding him by the shoulders, lowers him to the mattress, his head carefully laid on her pillow. 

 

 _Her_ pillow. Drat. Would it be too pathetic a display of childish attachment to ask for it back? 

 

"Alright?" she asks. 

 

"Yeah," he says, settling his legs under the covers. The bandage on his leg is clean and wrapped tight, as is his hand's wrap. 

 

"How do I look?" he asks. 

 

She knows he means his leg, but Mara presses her lips together into a line as she pulls the sheet up to his chin. "You're a bit scruffy. I could help you shave before we land." 

 

His clear eyes blink several times, taking his time processing her evaluation. It may have been too personal. Shaving will be low on his list of concerns, but he agrees. "Okay. Yes, thank you." 

 

"Don't thank me. I am going to bill the NRI for our troubles," she reminds him. 

 

"I know. That's fair," he says, head falling back upon her pillow. 

 

The urge to touch his hair passes. 

 

He closes his eyes and adds, "I'm going to start my trance. A codeword will draw me out. Or a very loud noise, if need be. What's a word or phrase you'll remember?" 

 

Mara thinks over what would be the most logical thing for her to say. "'Welcome back'." 

 

"A bit boring." 

 

"It's as exciting as you'll get." 

 

Luke's smile is contagious. It's good to see him wearing one. 

 

"Shall I get the lights on my way out?" 

 

"You don't have to leave." 

 

"I'm leaving, it's my turn to use the fresher. I'm disgusting." 

 

"Lights off." His smile remains. 

 

Mara squeezes his shoulder gently, then pats Artoo's stripped dome before turning off the lights on her way out.


	4. Chapter 4

Blessedly, their travel is uneventful and the arrival time on target. Mara spent the trip catching up on corporate analytics, preparing spread sheets (boring but necessary), calling around to all the likely repair shops for Artoo ("What do you mean that shade of blue is _proprietary_?"). Then she had to call around to all the chop shops that take kindly to Karrde's organization and wouldn't mind procuring illicit paint or doing detail work alongside custom metal milling. When she was sure none of the other women were about, she refreshed her lightsaber katas in their depleted cargo hold. With Skywalker around it couldn't hurt. 

 

Artoo kept vigil over his master. On the second day, she buffed out the dent in Artoo's ungrateful side and it permitted Mara to examine Luke's injuries to ensure his progress. His leg injury was no more than an angry red line and the scanner confirmed the tissue was healed. Because she applied a fresh dab of bacta, Mara expects it to be fully healed. 

 

A few hours from Phorsa Gedd, Mara perches on the edge of the bunk with a rocking, anxious Artoo at her side. 

 

"Welcome back." 

 

His eyes open with but one blink, alert and well-rested. He licks his dry lips but doesn't say anything. 

 

"How do you feel?" 

 

He wiggles his leg under the sheet. Moves his bound fingers with care. 

 

"Better. So much better." He sags with relief. "I could really use—" 

 

Mara shakes a cup of ice-chips. 

 

His grin is bright. "You're the best, Mara." 

 

"Yes, I am." She won't let him forget he's admitted it. 

 

He maneuvers his bandaged hand so that he can fish ice chips out of the cup like tongs. Once he has his whetted his thirst, he notices Mara has laid out clothes for him including a front-closing tunic. 

 

"There's time before we land. If you care to freshen up, you can get started and I'll have Mina make something to eat." 

 

"Yeah," he agrees, able to roll up into a seated position without any visible pain, though Mara's hand twitches as if anticipating he'll fall over. He steadily rises to his feet with happy greetings from his droid. 

 

On the walk to the fresher, he chomps down more ice. Mara brings along his clothes, setting them on the narrow counter. 

 

"I think I can manage without the sling," he says. "It feels like it's healed." 

 

Between the bacta, bone re-gen, and his days under Jedi meditation, he very well may be. "I'd leave that to the medics to decide." 

 

"It itches," he grumbles. 

 

"How about I take off the wrap while you clean up? Carefully." She dissuades him further by adding, "We have priority going through customs. You'll be at the medcenter in an hour." 

 

He grimaces but agrees. "Best not tempt fate." 

 

"Yes, it's for the best." Mara picks at the knot of the sling. His neck tendons strain as she does and don't relax until she has removed the brace and unwound his bandages and splint. 

 

"Do they hurt?" she asks, gingerly applying pressure where the break had been. 

 

He shakes his head 'no'. "Stiff, but otherwise it feels fine." 

 

"That's a good sign." She'd done her best to set the bone, but she has more experience in breaking fingers than setting them. She doesn't precisely know what it would feel like if something were wrong. 

 

It occurs to her it may seem like she's holding his hand. Which she is, but _isn't_ , even if he is shirtless and sleep mussed. She lets go with, "I'll leave you to—" 

 

At the same time, he says, "I'll clean up." Taking her advice, he only uses his unbroken finger to tentatively touch his bristly jaw, "And I'll let you know when I'm done." 

 

"Alright." She has the crazy urge to somehow be *more* helpful, but refrains from telling him where things are in the fresher. If he needs aid, Skywalker is enough of an adult to ask or make due. She leaves him to tell Mina to start making food and then hovers in the medical alcove under the pretense of checking messages (there are none). At least he doesn't take too long. 

 

Artoo whistles for her to come back and she returns with clean bandages and splint to re-wrap his hand, just in case. Luke's face contorts when he sees them, but puts up no protest. "I'd like to put on the tunic first." 

 

She drapes it over his shoulders and he slips it on one arm at a time. When the metal plating catches along the sleeve fabric he winces, but Mara is quick to help. She untangles him, then pins the dangling sleeve end up to prevent any further problems. 

 

He grumbles, "They're going to take my clothes away as soon as I get there." 

 

"You mean you don't look forward to wearing medcenter over-bleached linens?" He's succumbs to a wry smile, which is encourages her. "Cheer up. If I'm very lucky, you may get a backless gown." 

 

He blinks, as if he can't quite believe Mara has made the joke (Mara can't believe herself either), and then he laughs uproariously. 

 

It's his usual, infectious laugh she's gladdened to hear. "Now stop moving. This will be impossible if you don't hold still." 

 

Though he fights back his laughter, he offers up his hand and Mara re-wraps the bandages. It's not her finest work, but should tide him over. 

 

When she's done, he asks, "Should I sit somewhere?" 

 

Mara cranes her neck back and observes their height differential. It will make shaving a challenge. 

 

"Or," he continues, "do you need a box?" 

 

Mara clicks her tongue at him. "You must be feeling better if you're willing to risk short jokes." 

 

"I do. Well, I am starving." He plucks another ice chip out of the cup, scissoring his fingers to manage it. "But yes, a lot better." 

 

Though it's not an impractical idea, Mara will not deign to stand on a box. Nor is there enough space in the refresher-closet to bring in a chair for him to sit on. The sonic razor is attached to the wall so they could run it out into the hallway, but that would place the spectacle on display for the crew and Mara is sensitive enough not to subject him to their scrutiny more than necessary. As such, she takes the only other option available and hops up onto the edge of the sink counter. It's enough to support her weight, but her bottom is uncomfortably hanging over the lip of the sink, placing a painful weight on the juncture of her thighs. If she sits here too long it will eventually cut off her circulation. 

 

Mara takes the razor, turns it on and bids him, "Come here." 

 

He does, but no closer than necessary. He stoops ever so slightly, enough so she can delicately direct his jaw with the tips of her fingers, but leaves a gap between his hips and her knees. She ignores this, instead focusing on where he cuts his side-burns: high. With but a press of her thumb to his chin, he turns his head and angles his cheek to her. Resolutely, she thinks of nothing but keeping the razor straight as it cuts a new line. She takes no notice of his steady breathing as his chest rises and falls, nor of the stretch of his neck muscles as she draws the razor down, nor the bob of his throat as he swallows, nor how clear his eyes are. Least of all his proximity or how few plausible situations could render his face so close to her own. 

 

Dead-set on not thinking about any of this, Mara makes fast work of it, though she cannot resist checking the smoothness of his cheek with the swipe of her thumb. Just checking; she turns off the sonic and releases him. He straightens. 

 

Sonic razors work well, but are notorious for leaving the skin dry. 

 

"I don't have any aftershave," she says, grabbing the regular skin lotion. 

 

"That's fine," he agrees, and she takes a dollop to efficiently rub it into his smooth skin. 

 

As she's about to start under his chin, along his throat but has to pause as he says, "Oh." Then he colors with embarrassment, "Sorry, I kept trying to think of where I knew the scent from and my brain caught up. Out loud." 

 

Mara checks the label. "Crystal berry." 

 

"Sounds right," he says. 

 

He's blessedly quiet and Mara is able to finish and jump off the counter. It's good to have full circulation back. 

 

"Food?" she asks. 

 

"Yes, I'm starving." 

 

"There will be better food on-planet." 

 

"Not at the medcenter." 

 

"You won't be there long." 

 

"I certainly hope not," he replies. 

 

He rancors down two bowls of noodles without commenting on the over-cooked consistency or the tiny, freeze-dried, reconstituted 'nerf meat' of questionable origin. 

 

"Do you think you could bring me real vegetables?" he asks. 

 

"Yes," Mara agrees; it's a minor request in the grand scheme of things. He makes no further requests regarding visitations. 

 

Which is fine. They are due to land shortly, so Mara leaves him with Mina to speed their way through the landing process and customs. 

 

It's a swift process and Skywalker is ready to depart, grim-faced as he may be. 

 

The transport is there, waiting for them at the dock. 

 

As Mara releases the door, he mutters, "I don't really need an air ambulance." 

 

"Anyone who isn't you would need an air ambulance," Mara says. "And it's the reason were given priority docking. Without having to wait. Unless you would rather wait?" 

 

"No, thanks." He motions for Artoo to follow. "Come on, Artoo." 

 

Mara watches; it's procedure to ensure delivery. Under daylight, the dome-less droid appears shabbier than usual. The paramedic addresses Luke and Mara itches to hit the ramp seal. Luke gestures to Artoo in an irritated fashion and Artoo makes irate squawks. 

 

Giving up the button, Mara soldiers down the ramp. 

 

"We'll take a regular transport if you won't take Artoo." 

 

"Sir," says the flustered paramedic, "It's not a matter of want. The ambulance simply isn't configured to safely convey an R2 droid." 

 

It's enough for Mara to understand the basis of the disagreement. "Don't worry, Skywalker. I'll bring the droid." 

 

Skywalker's brow furrows and he touches on of his droid's shoulder-arches. "I'd rather have Artoo with me." 

 

"I'll follow you over as soon as we clear customs," Mara says. "It shouldn't take long. Besides, it'll give me and short stuff the chance to discuss specifications for his dome." 

 

That garners her a very positive, very inquisitive trill. 

 

Less ecstatic, Luke admits, "I don't particularly like medcenters. Don't be too long, Artoo." 

 

The droid agrees. 

 

He goes with the paramedic, climbing into the back of the transport. Mara does not blame him for his reluctance nor being upset that Artoo will not be at his side the entire time. 

 

Mara crosses her arms and represses a shudder when he leaves. She hates medcenters too. 

 

"Okay, short stuff. Let's get this over with." 

 

*** 

 

They clear customs quickly, as predicted. What takes longer than predicted are her comm calls regarding Artoo's replacement dome. Artoo is insistent that it be new rather than re-using or repurposing what had once belonged to another droid. This means the dome will have to be milled. And the same color. The same _proprietary_ color. She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Does it have to be the same Artoo?" 

 

It makes a pitiful whine. 

 

She clicks her tongue but says, "Fine," and then, "Make yourself useful and send me list of foods Skywalker will eat and his clothes size. If you'll keep him company at the medcenter, I will fetch him food." 

 

The droid meets her request and in short order a list that includes not only the requested items but his personal preferences and the location of where she can find the items in the city pops up on her datapad including a recipe. It ought to have come in through her regular mail, but it comes through her personal line. 

 

"Tincan? Did you hack me?" 

 

Instead of devolving into a furious beeping slew of explicatives and denial as it had when she'd warned it off of the ship's computer, it rocks gently side-to-side and warbles long-windedly. Its response throws her off her tirade. "Well. That nonsense about 'only wanting to make friends' may fly with the navicomputer but does not stand up against a datapad. My private information is private, pedal-bin." She wonders if its sad noises work so well on Skywalker, or if it's Artoo's sad, dome-less state completes the picture of contrition. "You're not going to do that again." 

 

It sends, _"I wanted to help,"_ to her datapad. 

 

Mara swallows back a _you're not_ , "I believe you. But you cannot keep hacking my things or Karrde's ships." 

 

Artoo replies with a complex set of beeps. Her binary isn't nearly good enough to interpret this rant, so she resorts to the datapad. 

 

 _"You have not always been trustworthy_." 

 

There's nothing she can say to refute the assertion. Her vision blurs faintly and she hasn't the wherewithal to try. 

 

"I'm aware enough not to a require a reminder." 

 

The droid sputters and words appear on her message-board translator, which she minimizes and chooses to ignore in favor of viewing paint samples. 

 

When Mara's skin begins to crawl, she knows they're close to the medcenter. It's an uncanny sensation, like static except it's _life_ and _death_ and torrents of emotion coalescing on her flesh like a film of sweat, the grime sometimes seeping into her pores. She's able to relegate it to the edges of her awareness, but there it will remain. The Force is too close to the surface here. 

 

They are directed to Luke with but one askance glance from a harried receptionist. At least they are expected. 

 

"Well, well," Mara says on the heels of Artoo's whistled greeting. "I see they've kitted you out in your favorite attire." 

 

Under the bright lights his skin is washed out and pale. He musters what little humor he feels up to. "You'll be disappointed to hear it's a full robe." 

 

Mara's sympathetic. "Thoughtful of you to consider my amusement when you're not having any fun." 

 

"You wouldn't be the first to call me considerate." 

 

Mara would groan, but the administering droid has managed to recall the doctor. He's a Rodian with a friendly demeanor though his Force signature lacks warmth. 

 

"Ah," he hums to Mara. "So. You must be the key." 

 

"I beg pardon?" 

 

"Master Skywalker tells me he can induce some manner of trance for his recuperation. We were going to wait until after his neurological treatment to reattach the prosthetic, but he assures me he can induce a trance, feeling no pain or discomfort. We could complete both procedures, simultaneously, and you know a key phrase to revive him. Do I have it correct, Master Skywalker?" 

 

He exchanges an apology with her at a glance. "Yes, if Mara's up for it." 

 

As if she has anywhere else to be now that Karrde relived her for the next few days. "Of course. How long will you be out?" This is what she signed up for by agreeing to go with him to the medcenter. Even better, if this goes well she may be able to leave a day or two early. It would still be too late to make it to the trade meeting, but it would get her back to work. 

 

"Tomorrow morning," Luke says. 

 

The doctor huffs. "If you could be so kind, he can be revived at 10 planetside." 

 

The medics permit Artoo and Mara to remain in the room as Luke is prepped and hooked up to the neural-networking array to repair the concussion damage. The unsettling edge of Force energy around her dissipates as Luke prepares for the healing trance, calming himself with deep breaths. It's repetitious and takes him longer than it did back in her cabin. Mara's sure it's because of the wired headgear and noise, the Force and the doctor's murmured, "Interesting" as he watches the monitors. 

 

In spite of the distractions, Luke manages to entrance himself. As soon as he has, the fussy Chandra-Fan attendant asks her to leave while they begin the process of fitting and attaching his new prosthetic. They do not pay mind to Artoo and Mara does not call them on their lack of attentiveness. 

 

Mara's not fond of shopping but takes the list of necessities as an excuse to escape the oppressive atmosphere. It's a better alternative than sitting around on plasti-steel chairs, her skin crawling as the hours of waiting stretch before her. 

 

As her crewmates had mentioned, the shopping isn't half bad. Buying a soft pair of men's pajamas and a set of clothes, including undergarments, makes her self-conscious since it's clear none of the items are for herself. Of course, no one pays her any mind. Who could possibly care? The irrational anxiety she feels is driven by intangible, invisible eyes. She works for people in the business of information and this is the sort of information they like knowing, were there anyone watching. Perhaps this is why she has maintained her friendship with Skywalker at a cautious distance. 

 

She's spiteful of the epiphany all the way through the market and tram ride back to her ship, glaring at the purchases piled on the seat beside her. There's no way to be a Force-sensitive friend to Skywalker without acquiring _baggage_ or becoming entangled in all that comes along with him. 

 

Like his droid. 

 

Whom she ought to comm. Not because she's anxious for Luke, but because it's responsible while he's under her auspices. 

 

The droid's morning commentary is waiting on her datapad. She should close it. It will provide no new insights or tell her anything she does not already know. She reads it anyway. 

 

_You have not always been trustworthy. My subroutines indicate your primary motivation is self-interest. While you've never vocalized a redaction of your declared intent to disassemble me, nor the harm you wish to perpetrate against Master Luke, he has indicated I should weigh your words against your actions. My current state of disassembly notwithstanding (because you are acting to make repairs) I will take his advice. He may not have survived without your intervention. So long as you uphold your promise to facilitate a replacement shell, I will consider your previously declared intent void by action._

_You should also bring Master Luke pickled hominy. Will you? Yes? Master Trader Jade, are you attending?_

_You're, you're not?! Typical_ [Transmission tagged for explicit language, please select to read]. END TRANSMISSION. 

 

It's absurd to try and imagine Luke Skywalker having a conversation with his droid about her, though logic dictates it happened. Must have happened. She wonders when Luke would have been inclined to argue on behalf of her actions. When had he seen through her bluster and banthashavit? When had he gained confidence in her? 

 

Not that any of it matters, she reminds herself as she unloads on to her ship. The option of Skywalker's protective little droid doesn't change things between them, but goodwill reigning will be one less source of antagonism. Distracted by the missive, she'd forgotten to contact Artoo for an update. Though now, standing in the tiny ship kitchen with a mound of ingredients, probing the droid for Luke's status updates feels like it'd be intrusive. The droid would contact her if anything was wrong, ergo, no message meant Luke's reconstruction was going well. 

 

Mara presses her lips into a frustrated line, takes out her datapad, and messages his droid. 

 

 _Artoo, walk me through this illegible recipe._

 

Remarkably, the vulgar little droid does.


	5. Chapter 5

Mara wakes early. In her own bunk. With her own pillow. She curls into it, breathing in the trace scent of Luke it now carries. 

 

She should have claimed her pillow before he slept on it. 

 

Too awake to sleep in and with time to kill, she works out, stretches, and cleans up after her messy crewmates who stop in for breakfast and promptly leave to attend a race. Because of course they do. 

 

Why their little kitchen has a portable ceramic warmer—one that happens to be the correct shape and size she can lay the flatbread in—Mara has no idea. It must belong to someone picky about their food. She places blue-flecked cheese crumbles in a baggie. The vegetable spread reeking of vinegar is sealed up tight in a pressure container before she sets out for the medcenter. 

 

Even with all her dallying she's early. Bearing goodwill gifts is anti-climactic when the intended recipient is unappreciatively unconscious. 

 

At least Artoo welcomes her and, after inspecting what she has brought, chirps approval. 

 

Color has returned to Luke's face along with beard scruff. His arms are laid out at his sides, drawing Mara to his bed to see the prosthetic. She does not touch, but observes the near seamless join of his syneflesh and skin. She's heard it takes time to acclimate to new flesh, let alone a new limb. The doctors will make any necessary adjustments, but that puts an image of doctors and nursing droids hovering around him. Too many people, a crowd, with all their attention focused on his hand. Luke won't enjoy any of it. 

 

She bends, her lips near his ear and hair brushing the edge of the mattress. 

 

"Welcome back." 

 

His clear, blue eyes double-blink, sweeping away any indication of sleep. His countenance cheers as he takes in her, the room, and raises his hands, turning them back to front. 

 

Asking how he's doing in their current setting would make her feel like a nurse. Instead, she says, "Your droid directed me to bring you hibacha." 

 

"You found hibacha? Here?" 

 

"The fixings were cheap and the recipe only required me to blend the ingredients, so you need not worry about it being burnt. Artoo walked me through it." She slides the bedside table over to set the plates and utensils. "It was simple enough." 

 

"It's perfect," Luke says without having tasted it. He takes it upon himself to try out his new hand by dishing up the hibacha onto the hot flatbread. He does so with a spoon, lavishing it before sprinkling on the crumbling cheese. The bread is soft and he while he squeezes it too hard, collapsing part of it, that doesn't stop him from shoving it in his mouth. 

 

"I bet that trance takes it out of you." 

 

He shakes his head, chewing. "I'm always well-rested. But hungry? Every time." 

 

"One of these days, you'll have to show me how it's done." 

 

A smile of genuine pleasure crosses his face. It's either caused by the thought of teaching her or by the fact Mara is unwrapping squares of nut-cake. 

 

"I'm going to have dreams about that cake." 

 

"That's one hell of a sweet tooth you have, Skywalker." 

 

"I don't have a lot of time for personal indulgence. Sweets are quick and easy." He fumbles with his fork, but recovers with a brief grimace, as if he owes her an explanation. "Little calibration needed." 

 

"The doctors will be in later. I may have pulled your plug early to spare you their hovering." Mara perches on the end of his bed, serving herself. 

 

Fixing himself another, he says, "That's two I owe you." 

 

"Three, if you're keeping tabs." Mara corrects. "On behalf of your droid." 

 

Artoo whistles in protest. 

 

"I agreed to replace your dome, not let your master off the hook." 

 

A derisive beep is given, but no further argument is offered. 

 

"If I'm not off the hook you'll have to tell me how I can make it up to you." 

 

He doesn't sound like he's joking, which is why it's a relief that the doctor chooses to interrupt, barging in and bemoaning that Luke has awoken early. Despondent, Luke watches as the try with the food is rolled off to the side. 

 

As predicted, they run calibration tests. Luke casts long gazes in the direction of Mara and the hibacha and cake she's eating (he hadn't been able to finish his second helping). Stoicism carries him through the poking and prodding of the flesh. He grasps levers and pulls when requested. There's enough time devoted to this that Mara is able to contact the parts shop to verify they're ready to fit Artoo. A detailer has created a color palette and has included a diatribe on the intricacies of matching the exact measure of reflective gloss and how they may obtain the perfect degree of cobalt if a layer of purple candy-apple is laid first. It's enough of a distraction that while Mara's present, she's not adding to the hovering or crowding. 

 

Unlike his droid who radiates anxiety with every dome swivel. 

 

"Get over here and approve these specs, Tin Can." 

 

It hesitates, but Luke encourages with, "Go on Artoo." 

 

As she expects, the droid reconnects to her messenger to view the palette. 

 

Mara whispers, "Don't fuss over him." 

 

There are indignant huffs from Artoo and the testy message, 

 

 _"Me not fuss? How about you not fuss?"_

 

Aware Skywalker knows binary, Mara pointedly says, "Food is food, not fuss. Now tell me if this scan is a match." 

 

Artoo does, as best it's able over the provided network. After careful consideration, the droid declares one option a close, if too dark a match. Mara conveys the message to the shop. 

 

The 2-1B overseeing Luke's final calibrations is taking its sweet time. Artoo fidgets, twisting and muttering, holding itself back from returning to Luke's side. It's an impatient little thing. Mara kept it occupied with an easy distraction and, while she doesn't want to bring up the message the droid sent earlier, it has to be addressed. Better now than never. 

 

She sends: 

 

 _"I read the message you sent me on the tram, Artoo, and I appreciate the gesture. I have no intent to disassemble you or Skywalker."_

 

It takes longer than she expects for Artoo to reply. 

 

_"It was apparent, though difficult to confirm without a suitable reason why you would not state it when Master Luke has made it clear he forgives you."_

__

Mara regrets distracting the droid with this conversation. 

 

_"It is not so easy to forgive myself."_

__

__The 2-1B finally declares the adjustments they've made to be optimal, so long as Luke is happy with the results._ _

__

__"You are hereby discharged," the droid drones. "Please add your signature to the discharge documentation on your way out."_ _

__

__Luke is alighting from the bed before the droid finishes. "Thanks. Could you direct me to where my clothes are stored?"_ _

__

__The 2-1B is on its way out and tilts its head toward the doctor. "They have been placed in the sideboard. Good day."_ _

__

__"Yes, yes," the doctor agrees dismissively. "I appreciate the opportunity to observe your trance."_ _

__

__"I imagine there's research literature in existence somewhere out there about it," Luke says._ _

__

__"Somewhere, likely. But difficult to obtain." The doctor takes an absurd amount of pleasure in shaking Luke's hand. "Best be on our way."_ _

__

__Mara waits until they're gone to say, "I brought you clothes to wear."_ _

__

__"You're already loaning me these," he says, pulling them from the cupboard by his bed._ _

__

__"If you claim you don't mind wearing the same clothes for four days straight, I won't believe you." Mara tosses the duffel bag she filled for him and he catches it easily._ _

__

__He peers inside with all the trepidation of someone expecting a prank, but blinks and says, "Oh."_ _

__

__"Your droid provided your measurements. It wasn't hard and you're paying me back."_ _

__

__He's no less pleased and tosses the borrowed clothes back. "Let me change and we'll get out of here."_ _

__

__When he emerges, he has a bounce in his step and wastes no time scooping up the piece of cake he hadn't had a chance to eat._ _

__

__"Back to yourself?" Mara asks, handing him a napkin._ _

__

__"That obvious, huh?"_ _

__

__"I don't blame you. Medcenters are," she hesitates to say, but he finishes._ _

__

__"The Force is omnipresent at its extremes." Aware of his own shortcomings adds, "And I'm a terrible patient."_ _

__

__"No worse than I am, I'm sure," Mara commiserates._ _

__

__Knowing they will be asked to leave, they eat quickly. Artoo acts as a deterrent for anyone who may consider kicking them out by occupying the doorway._ _

__

__As she packs the remains and dishes, Mara asks him, "Will you be joining us at the junk shop?"_ _

__

__"Wouldn't miss it."_ _

__

__The source of his pleasure becomes apparent once they're at the shop. He takes to rooting through the boxes of parts and tools, climbing over the mounds of scrap in the yard out back. Twice while she's waiting for the adjustments to Artoo's dome to be drilled, he returns with a remarkably pristine carbonator and a bunch of tools for her to hang onto while he sets out to find more treasures. Seated on a filthy chair with uneven footing, a cloudier of stray loth cats have flopped at her feet. She feeds one some cheese from breakfast and scratches its chin. Then the rest feel entitled to her attention and compete for it by rolling on the dirty floor showing her their soft, fluffy bellies. Two of the kits have settled onto her lap and have proceeded to shed profusely as she can't stop petting the contented things._ _

__

__As for Artoo, it's being obstinate. It still wants the replacement dome to be exactly the same as before, but also whines about improvements. Mara has no interest in paying for additional fixtures but, while Luke is occupied in the junkyard, gives the go ahead for a (technically) illegal stun weapon to be installed._ _

__

__"You will only use this to protect Skywalker and your own worthless tin." She pats Artoo atop its temporary dome fitting._ _

__

__The human in charge of the whole operation is grizzled and smells of the engine grease clearly imbedded under her fingernails. Mara approves; she prefers shops where the owners know how to get their hands dirty. The final replacement will need to be milled and painted with no less than four layers to create the proper coloring which means they'll have to come back tomorrow._ _

__

__Luke returns, this time with canisters that resemble military grade speed boosters._ _

__

__"What do you intend to retrofit those to?"_ _

__

__He counters with, "How do you intend to spend the rest of your vacation?" He gestures to the kits nuzzling into her arms. "Making friends? Taking home strays?"_ _

__

__Mara allows the change in topic. "I have enough strays as it is and this is a lousy vacation. I'll need to check in with Karrde to see how the presentation went. Just because I'm not there for the presentation doesn't mean I cannot contribute. Or not expected to." He nods along. She adds, "However, I happen to have a few favors to call in, should I feel so inclined."_ _

__

__"Oh," he says, voice rising an octave._ _

__

__"Don't sound so surprised." Artoo blaps and rolls away, navigating around cats and tails, to a buffing station. It's pushing the advantage it has over Mara's generosity. "That healing trance came in handy. I'd like to learn it."_ _

__

__"I'd be happy to teach you." He offers her his hand to help her up from of the awful chair. "It involves meditation."_ _

__

__Mara scrunches her nose as she takes his hand. One cat is unseated and lops off to the ground. The other digs its claws in and mews piteously._ _

__

__Luke scoops it up, carefully unhooking its claws from Mara's pants. He says, "Aw, me too little guy," as he drops the thing with its family and helps Mara up._ _

__

__His hand feels real as any living hand. Dry, but flesh and bone._ _

__

__"I know how much you look forward to navel gazing, but if it's not too much trouble, I was going to ask if you'd spar with me. A trial run for—"_ _

__

__They both look down together at where their hands are clasped, at his new hand. Mara's no coward and won't be made to feel ashamed or turn the moment awkward. She gives his hand a gentle squeeze._ _

__

__He says, "Hospital tests are one thing, but I'd like to give my lightsaber a real try. We may as well call it a fair trade."_ _

__

__The prospects of spending a few days on Phorsa Gedd have improved. "Yes."_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all you lovely Readers for making it all the way to the end! An extra special thanks to you Commenters who have shown my fic love and appreciation. I'm flattered, tickled, and delighted by your outpouring of kindness (and humbly reminded that I don't comment on the fics I read as often as I should). I spent about 10 months on and off writing this fic and, while I am my own target audience, having a community of readers helps validate all the hard work that goes into this stuff : ) And who doesn't enjoy their hard working being validated? 
> 
> I'd like to reiterate my thanks to frangipani who wrote the prompt which got my plot bunnies going, got me through my mid-fic slump, and betaed this. Twice. If you have not read any of her Luke/Mara fics, you should go read some. 
> 
> If you'd like to read moar Luke/Mara by me, you can head over to my author page and read "slipping into the ground or into your arms". If you'd like more smutty-smut, I have two smutty Doctor Who fics. 
> 
> If you'd like to come say 'hi' or have questions, I can be found over at my tumblr, bananasareforparties: 
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bananasareforparties/ 
> 
> Just don't send me porn (please, please, no porn). 
> 
> IRL I've been up to a bunch of burlesque dance classes. Gotta get my nerdy, sedentary butt in shape. One day soon I will be doing the splits like a pretty, pretty princess. I'm also trying to come up with a stage name. What do we think of 'Bea Honeymaker'? Suggestions welcome! (Edit: My name of preference sounds like it's a go: "Bea Honeywell" supr excite)
> 
> (If I have any shows/performances to announce, that'll be on my tumblr, too)


End file.
